The sunlight fell too hard on her face; it coarsened her skin and made her eyelashes cast grotesque shadows. She looked brittle and desiccated. She almost looked dead.
Then her eyes came into focus and her mouth drew slightly back, as though she were about to smile. She stared up at him candidly. Hutch knew that expression, had seen it hundreds of times on the faces of confused and miserable women. It didn't belong on Jeanie.
His eyes remained locked on her face as he almost unconsciously reached out to her. She stepped forward — threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Hutch. . . ." A strand of hair brushed his eyelid; her hands lay warm and heavy on his back.
Then she trembled and drew away from him, and the harsh lines of her face were gone. Oh, she is beautiful.
"You stay here." His voice was husky; he almost choked on the words. "I'll be back, after we book him."
Still she stared at him, her face sad and still and luminous. She looked like a madonna — or a pietà. He'd rather it were the former.
Surely he could help her regain her happiness, her innocence, her — the word virginity flashed through his mind. He dismissed it as absurd. But whatever it was she needed back, he hoped he could get it for her.
What she needs is a man who loves her enough not to weaken, not to betray her, not to — doubt her. He looked into her clear eyes. What was there to doubt? If I really loved her, really believed she was a good person, not even — that — could have made me betray her. That word again. Betray.
Will I ever be worthy of her trust?
"No." Her voice jarred him back to reality. She was almost sobbing. "I — I won't be here." She slowly shook her head. "There's too much between us. Forest — what I was before . . ."
What you were before? A prostitute. That's all. There's nothing vicious about a prostitute. Look at what I was: A junkie and a traitor.
"Jeanie —"
"Look what happened to you because of me."
Look what happened to you because of me. You thought you'd found a decent man, a man you could trust.
Her eyes brightened and she smiled. "Look, I'll be back." She giggled hollowly. He brought a hand to her cheek, aching with affection for her, silently cursing the decision he had to make.
"You can't get rid of me," she said.
"No. If we're gonna end it, we're gonna end it." He spoke deliberately, afraid she wouldn't understand. I'm trying to do the honorable thing. Her lower lip began to tremble. But what do I know about honor?
Maybe I should go back and apologize. I at least owe her an apology.
Starsky was waiting pensively by the Torino. Hutch looked at him without meeting his eyes. Now there's who you owe an apology.
God, he hadn't even thought about that. Starsky had suffered as much as anyone for his and Jeanie's sakes. More than that: Starsky had been for him what he, Hutch, had failed to be for Jeanie. Starsky had sensed the danger he was in, had come after him when he was lost, had helped protect him from the shame of his own recent past.
And hadn't doubted him.
"There's too much between us. Look what happened to you because of me." She had to say that. It mattered to her — and to me. I don't have to say it to Starsky. It's true, but I don't have to say it. Because nothing that's between us matters enough to drive us apart.
A remembered phrase came suddenly to mind: Love means never having to say you're sorry.
Hutch slumped against the side of the car; his partner turned to him, looking concerned. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Now I am.