Chapter 2
Five hours later, Mac Taylor was high in the skies above O'Hare, watching the city of his birth rise up from the shroud of dawn and resolve into the disparate collection of people and buildings that he knew so well. His face was impassive, his demeanour calm: no-one on the early morning flight would have guessed that, behind the stern, passive façade, the man had been in turmoil.
He had walked for over an hour after stumbling out of Quinn's door. His phone had rung five times – each time, he knew, she would have tried to persuade him back, into her apartment, her life, her bed – and he hadn't answered. For brief moments during that hour, he didn't know who he hated most: the woman who had tried to seduce him, or the man who had almost given in to her. He felt dirty, ashamed, and scared.
Because, no matter what his conscience told him, about the fact that he'd stopped, that he knew he'd been wrong – no matter what he did now, or in the future, to put things right – the memory would always be there. And, he had to admit, it was a good memory: Quinn had wakened every sense within him, and sharpened his nerves to screaming point. A part of him didn't want to forget.
He felt sick. It was only a kiss – that's what she'd said – but it was the potential of the thing that terrified him. Claire had been away for less than two months – if he couldn't hold out against temptation for that long, what sort of a husband was he? What sort of a friend – what sort of a man?
Finally, footsore and almost lost, he sat down on a cold bench somewhere near Central Park. He desperately wanted to get away from this place – from Quinn, the lab, New York. He wanted to cleanse his mind and body and try to salvage something from the mess of the evening. But where could he go? She had his number, she knew where he lived – he wouldn't put it past her to turn up on his doorstep and try to coax and cajole her way in. He thought of her, lying in Claire's place in their bed: and then he was sick.
Mac did not do things by halves: he fought, worked and played hard, and a more even-tempered man might have seen the night's events for what they were, passing desires born of fatigue and loneliness, stopped before they became irreversible, and probably best consigned to the dustbin of 'things I'll pretend didn't happen for my peace of mind'. It never occurred to him that he was overreacting: if it had, he wouldn't have been the person he was, and neither Claire nor Quinn would have cared for him.
* * *
In the half-light of New York's false dawn, he became aware of someone standing beside him: looking up, he saw the unmistakable shoes of a beat cop, obviously wondering who this slumped, broken man was, and ready for trouble should there be any. The realisation that ordinary life was still going on around him roused Mac, and he got to his feet.
"Officer."
"You need any help, sir?"
Mac shook his head and, knowing he shouldn't but too bone-weary to care, flashed his badge. "Long night," he said.
The officer's attitude changed at once. "Can I get you a car? You, er – " he pointed to Mac's pants, stained and beginning to smell " – you could do with a change of clothes, Detective."
An idea catapulted into Mac's brain. "Yeah," he replied. "That would be great. La Guardia? I need to get to Chicago."
Once at the airport, he had – again without authority or constraint – used his badge to access a shower, new clothes, and a meal. All paid for, of course, but your average tourist or businessman would have been hard-pushed to find such luxuries at five in the morning. Demanding a seat on the first flight to Chicago, he found himself ushered into club class (at an economy price), sharing the cabin with passengers whose only concerns were business papers, presentations and barked phone conversations.
Mac could stretch, drink champagne, enjoy an unencumbered view and take his pick of more than a hundred movies, tv shows or local channels. He had never travelled in such style – and all of it was completely lost on him. The flight attendant was anxious to ensure his comfort but, once he had tersely informed her that he was a police officer on active duty, she left him alone.
Alone: to think, to contemplate what he had done, to decide what he had to do next.
It was not a happy flight.
* * *
"Mac?" Claire's voice sounded small and far away, as if she was still nearly half-way across the continent.
"Claire? Oh God – Claire! Are you OK?"
"I'm fine – just wanted to catch you before the day started."
Mac stood outside the airport: he had been about to hail a cab when his phone had rung and he'd dragged it out of his pocket, ready to refuse the call, and seen Claire's number flash on the screen. Her voice was like balm to his poor, troubled soul. "It's so good to hear you. How are things?"
"Same." She paused. "I – I tried to suggest coming home, like I said I would?"
"And?" He guessed it hadn't gone well.
"She said she'd come back to New York with me if she could stay in our apartment."
"What? No way, Claire – no way."
"I know, I know – she said she'd stay if you found a hotel."
Mac was speechless. His mother-in-law was not only trying to take his wife away – she was after his home as well? If it hadn't been happening to him, and if it hadn't resulted in last night's stupidity, he would have laughed. Instead, he swallowed. This had to stop. Now.
"You're coming home, Claire," he said. "Today."
There was a pause. "I – I think I'd better, Mac. I'm losing myself here."
The distress in her voice was clear. He knew now that his spur of the moment decision had been the right one. "Hang in there, kitten," he said. "I'll sort it."
"Mac."
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you too, Claire – more than life itself. Without you – " He paused. " – Without you there's nothing worth living for." What if he told her what he'd done and lost her? He felt the panic begin to rise.
"Mac," she remonstrated. "Don't say that."
"It's true."
"Life is always worth living – you know that."
"Not without you," he whispered.
She cut across him. "She's up! I got to go." The connection was abruptly broken, and Mac was alone again.
He loved her beauty, but he loved her determined optimism more – it complemented and softened his own taciturn view of the world. Younger than he in both years and experience, she was nevertheless wiser in many things, and he recognised her superiority in matters of life and how to live it. Perhaps she wouldn't care about what he'd done – perhaps she would just shrug it off?
He began to wonder, as the cab sped through the suburban streets, if telling her what had happened was for her – or for him. It would ease his conscience – but if it troubled her, he must not even consider it. His peace of mind would be a small price to pay for hers. And yet not to tell her would be a deception…
Mac had been brought up a Catholic, and he knew the value of confession. But unburdening oneself to a priest was quite different from telling someone you loved that you had betrayed them. The therapeutic value might be similar, but the cost to the listener was not. Could he do that to Claire? Should he not rather bear the burden alone?
Or would that be cheating on her all over again?
He still hadn't made up his mind when the cab drew up outside Claire's mother's house. A large, clapboard structure, it was strangely redolent of the old South, and almost out of place in the smart Chicago suburb. He felt his feet dragging as he walked up the path: his reluctance to encounter the woman for whose daughter he would never be good enough was absolute. Still, she would – presumably – be in bed or sitting down, unable to move, and the person whose wonderful face he would catch sight of as the door opened would be –
"Betty!" His astonishment was obvious: he had been expecting her to be virtually immobile, and here she was walking around the house without even a stick! What the hell was going on?
"You…" She looked him up and down as if he'd been a particularly nasty virus. "Why aren't you in New York?"
If she had been in any way pleasant – and it would have been a first – Mac would have held back. But her acidity, her disgust at his presence – and the fact that she was answering the door – stung him into action. "I'm delighted that you're back on your feet," he said coldly, stepping up and making her, by his sheer presence, move aside. "I've come to take my wife home."
"You can't do that!" the woman snapped. "I need her help!"
Mac looked her up and down in his turn. "You seem fine to me." He went inside the hallway. "Claire! It's Mac!"
He heard an exclamation, a scuffle – and Claire's face appeared from behind the kitchen door, flushed and strained from weeks of unappreciated toil. Her hair was piled roughly on top of her head, in a style Mac loved: but here it was purely practical, to keep it out of the way as she tended to her mother and her mother's house.
Mac was shocked at the sight of her: the shadows beneath her eyes gave her an air of death, and she'd lost weight. Then she was in his embrace, dishcloth abandoned on the floor, arms flung around his neck as though he was a grail she'd sought her whole life and found at last, and he knew she was still his same, wonderful Claire.
He held her close, sensing her exhaustion and despair. He didn't even try to kiss her – his love was too deep for that. Instead, he poured his strength out, nourishing her from his very soul, filling her up with the joy of being together once more. Why the hell had he let this go on so long?
A swipe on the shoulder gave him his answer. "Hey!" Mrs Conrad stood behind him, eyes like blood diamonds. "You might do that in New York, but here she's my daughter first, not your wife! Her duty's here, and if you still had a mother you'd know that."
The pain inflicted by her shocking words was almost unbearable: Mac had been distraught when his own mother died, just a few years after he and Claire were married, and this old witch knew it. But he held himself in check, unwilling to let himself down or give her the satisfaction of seeing his still fresh grief.
"Claire," he whispered, keeping his voice level and steady. "I want you to go and grab your stuff – whatever you want to take home – as fast as you can."
He felt her hesitate, and felt too her mother's malevolence, almost a physical thing in the narrow hallway. No wonder Claire hadn't been able to get away: she was baleful, this older woman, sucking the life out of all who came near her. But not Claire – not any more. "Go on," he said softly. "It's all right. I'm taking you home."
"Mom…"
"Claire!" Mac's voice was harder now. "Your mother's fine – I think we can all see that – she doesn't need you here any more."
Claire edged towards the stairs. As she reached the lowest, her mother fell. "Go on!" Mac barked. He hated talking to his wife this way, but it was almost as if she'd had a spell cast over her. He turned to Mrs Conrad: he had seen the deliberateness of her action. "Come on, Betty – up you get. No – don't fight me. That's it – hey, I said don't fight me! There – come on, let's get you sat down in the living room – you could walk to the door, you can walk across the hallway. Not so hard, huh?" He finally settled her in an easy chair and stood over her, smouldering with barely-controlled fury.
"I'll have you for assault!" she snapped.
Mac lost it: he pulled out his badge and waved it in her face. "You do that! See where it gets you! And don't you ever – ever – say that Claire isn't my wife again! She is always – will always be – my wife. My – wife. Understand?" He stood up, trembling with rage.
If looks could kill, Mac would have fallen then and there, dead before he hit he floor. But – as a rule – they don't, and Claire's mother had to be content with merely ill-wishing her son-in-law. His face was closed, cold and hard: between them, he thought, Claire's husband and mother had made a fine mess of the last five weeks of her life.
Not any more.
* * *
"You'll tell her with every gesture, every look. You won't be able to help yourself."
Quinn's words sliced through him like razors: slick and sweet and deadly. He had found two seats on a flight to New York and he and Claire now sat at the back of business class – again upgraded because of Mac's badge – Claire's sleeping head on his arm, while he rested his cheek on her hair, feeling he had no right even to be breathing the same air, let alone touching her.
In the cab to the airport she had wanted to hold him, caress him, kiss him – but he had kept his distance, citing his fight with her mother and lack of sleep as the reasons he wasn't feeling himself. She had smiled a strange, knowing smile, and he'd known he'd have to confess. And what would happen then? To lose her – to lose her through his own stupid, fleeting betrayal – it would be more than he could bear. He couldn't go on without her, not like that – Quinn could have the job, the lab, the whole bloody lot – he wouldn't want to live any more.
Claire stirred against him, snuggling closer in a movement of trust that tore him apart, then stretching and sitting upright as she came back to consciousness. He thought, as he watched her, that even in her thin, pale cheeks, he had never seen a more beautiful human being. And this was the woman he had betrayed…
They drank their champagne and nibbled at the exotic cheeses the airline saw fit to provide them with. The food was tasteless in Mac's mouth, though Claire seemed to enjoy it. Finally, when they were perhaps thirty minutes out of La Guardia, she turned to him and took his hands, tightening her grip when he automatically tried to pull away.
"Mac. I know something's happened."
He went deathly cold. "I – nothing – I…"
"Look at me! Don't mess with me, Mac – I'm your wife and your best friend and something's eating you up inside. I want to know what, before we land."
He sighed desperately. In five weeks he'd forgotten how direct and blunt Claire could be. He turned and looked into her eyes. His stomach churned: he felt sick and weak and at that moment would have been willing to do anything rather than face this music. Except lose her – and that's what would happen if he didn't.
His mind was in turmoil. His crass, wavering stupidity had brought him here: no-one else could take the blame, no-one could shoulder this burden – yet now he had to share it with the woman he loved, and weigh her down with the knowledge of his betrayal. He wished he'd never come – wished he'd left her to Betty's selfishness. At least then she wouldn't have to know. He wished he was standing on the Washington Bridge so he could clamber up between the railings and launch himself into watery oblivion. He wished he'd never been born.
He wished Claire had married someone who deserved her.
He closed his eyes: he couldn't bear to look at her lovely, gentle face. It was only words: their meaning would come out anyhow – and Claire deserved to hear the words. But he couldn't watch her do it. He gripped her hands. "Quinn Shelby," he said in a voice as flat as week-old beer, and as lifeless. "I – I kissed Quinn Shelby." He took a breath, still not looking at her. "I went to her apartment – it was late at night and she asked me to walk her home – and I kissed her."
He breathed raggedly: he knew he was a coward and a liar and a fool, and now Claire knew it too.
There was a long silence: so long, that eventually he opened his eyes, wondering if Claire had heard. She hadn't moved: her face was streaked with tears that she had shed without a sound, but she still had hold of his hands. "Claire? I'm sorry. I – there's no excuse. I love you – I love you beyond anything – please, please forgive me. I don't deserve – I'll wait as long as it takes – a whole lifetime – all I ask is that you try, some day, to forgive me."
She breathed unevenly, and he waited. Then, as if no words were adequate, she caught him to her and hugged him as though she was never going to let go.
"Claire – can you forgive me? Please? I'll do…"
"Anything. Yes, I know." She nuzzled his hair. "Mac, I don't think we should discuss this any more. I think we should put it behind us – completely, behind us – and never talk of it again."
"What?"
She looked at him with clear, cool eyes. "I left you, Mac – I abandoned my husband to work, and loneliness, and strain, because it was easier to go half way across the country and look after my mother. What do you want me to do – forgive you for being human?"
"What I did was wrong."
"Ditto." She shook her head, and her curls stood out like halo around her. "No-one's perfect – not even you, though I know you'd like to be." She stroked his face, and he trembled at her touch. "You're mine, Mac Taylor. You may wander occasionally – no, you may do, trust me on that – but you're mine, and always will be. I will never stop loving you – even if I die tomorrow, I'll never stop loving you."
"Claire! Don't…"
She smiled. "Just being with you – puts the whole world right again. It never happened, Mac – it never happened. And I'll never leave you again – I promise."
He couldn't see her for tears, so when he felt her lips on his, he was surprised. Then he felt the urgency behind her touch – her need to reaffirm all that they were to each other – and fell into her kiss with a desperation and passion that were a world away from anything Quinn could offer.
"I love you," he mumbled, when he could speak. "Only you – always – always..."
"I know. Take me home, Mac. Take me home and love me."
He did.
* * *
He got his promotion: Quinn got hers too, but he got the lab, and a brand new office, with plenty of room for photographs of Claire. He never said a word about what had happened, judging that his wife's approach was the best one, and since he and Quinn were rarely alone save when surrounded by reminders of Claire, she found no opportunity to repeat her behaviour.
He talked about Claire often – even invited her to the lab once or twice – and sometimes asked Stella, who had been promoted with him, to their house for dinner or drinks or just a chat over coffee. He knew Quinn suspected that something was going on between them, and took a perverse pleasure in never denying it, but in reality he had the satisfaction of seeing his wife and his colleague – whom he came to respect more each day for her stubbornness, passion and integrity – become deep and loving friends.
He never extended the courtesy to Quinn, and was relieved when, late in 2000, she requested a transfer to Jersey. He would have preferred Alaska, but Jersey would do. He even found it in himself to wish her good luck as she strode out of the lab, on her final day, to the downtown bar where everyone had gathered to say farewell. She didn't ask if he would be there, and he wasn't.
And a year later, after the devastating events of 2001, he reaped the rewards of Stella and Claire's friendship as the younger woman strove to comfort him: after his wife's death, he was never without arms to hold him, although he was always scrupulously careful never to step over that terrible, invisible line.
He had had a narrow escape, and he was never going to mess up again.
* * *
April 2008
Looking at Quinn now, the memories cascaded through Mac's mind as if they had been formed yesterday. He was lucky, he knew, that his stupidity hadn't cost him his wife: he wasn't going to risk being drawn into this woman's web a second time, even though now he had no wife to lose. He had never known exactly what had gone through Claire's mind either during the flight or afterwards: but she was true to her word, and they never spoke of his 'mistake' again. Not once, in the three years of life she had left, did Mac ever forget what he had done: and not once did Claire ever give him cause to remember.
He could not imagine Quinn being as kind: she always had to have the last word – always had to make her point and score the final goal. Then and now.
"You know," she said, "I've thought about this moment so many times: about what I would say to you when I finally got the chance. And here I am, and all I keep thinking is, Does he ever wonder 'what if?'"
Mac looked at her in astonishment. She had done her best to seduce him, to tear him from a woman she knew he loved – and she still wondered 'what if?' Her lack of understanding, not only of him but of those who commit their lives to others, was overwhelming, and for a moment he felt genuinely sorry for her: Claire might no longer be here, but no-one could take away what they'd had, and it was something Quinn had never known.
The thought made his response – as he stood to answer an interruption – softer than it might have been. Pulling on his jacket, he faced her and tried to make his voice gentle. "Quinn, no matter how good they are…" he paused, remembering that, for a moment, they had been good – terrifyingly, dangerously good – "some memories need to be forgotten." He had to put a stop to this: she had to move on, once and for all.
Her face closed. "I get it," she said. She was clearly in pain.
He was sorry: if it had lasted this long, her affection for him was obviously heartfelt. Perhaps, if they'd met before he'd known Claire, something good would have come of it, but he doubted it. She did not have the generosity of spirit that a man like Mac sought, and that Claire had possessed in abundance.
He watched her leave his office with a mixture of regret and relief. He felt a sharp need for loving arms to hold him – loving hands to touch him – but knew that no such joy was available to him now. Stella would hold him, as a friend, if he went to her: but he had stopped himself from allowing her to become anything else a long time ago, and if he couldn't have her love and love her in return, he didn't want her to pretend. He wasn't a man who settled for second best.
He was better off alone than trapped in a web, unable to escape, waiting for freedom that would never come. The female of the species, he caught himself thinking.
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
The End
