One quick note about this chapter. I don't write to music as I know many people do, but certain songs often provide inspiration for my stories, scenes and obviously titles. This story is no different, and this chapter in particular was inspired by a song called "Healing Hands" by Marc Cohn. I know for some people knowing these things adds something to stories; for others it doesn't. But I thought I would share. The tone of this chapter was difficult, so maybe the song will enhance it.

Thanks for reading,

Rhonda

Healing Hands

Chapter 2

It might have been that he was disoriented and not expecting to see her. It might have been the way she was standing there, on the staircase, in the dark, hovering above him as if suspended in air. Or that the little bit of moonlight and streetlight peeking through the windows gathered around her, reflecting off her skin and clothes so that she fairly glowed. But whatever the cause, for one very real millisecond, Billy believed he had died. And that God had shown him mercy.

Then she spoke, his name, and he tumbled back to earth. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but in it he heard fear and relief and in that last syllable, a lilt of something that stung despite the numbness he felt. Disappointment. She was disappointed, and he was left wondering why. Because it was him? Because he was there? But then Billy recalled his less than dignified entrance and realized what it must have looked like from her vantage point.

"I'm not drunk."

Victoria didn't move or speak, didn't acknowledge his confession in any way and gave no indication as to whether she believed him or not. He wanted her to believe him though, needed it in a way he couldn't have expected. Still gripping his keys, Billy slid his arm up the door, stretching until he felt the object he was looking for. A soft glow emanated from the sconce by the staircase, diminishing the illusion before him, but illuminating the truth.

"I haven't had a single drink," he said. "Promise."

Certain that his promises held little stock with her at the moment, Billy slipped his keys into his pocket and pushed himself away from the door, forcing his tired body upright. She was watching him, her expression unreadable as he outstretched his arms and placed the heel of his right foot in front of his left. He then did the same with his left foot and repeated the sequence until he had walked a perfectly straight and sober line to the foot of the staircase. He stopped there, sensing a boundary he wasn't permitted to cross.

"I haven't been gambling either."

Still, Victoria said nothing, but the tension in her shoulders eased slightly, and he knew she was convinced. She was little more than an arm's length away from him now, so close he could almost reach out and grab her, pull her to him. But that wasn't his privilege anymore, no matter how much he wanted to. But in the light and with this new proximity he could, however, drink in the sight of her in a way the dark hadn't allowed. Sometimes the remembrance of a thing can be more beautiful than its reality. That was never true when it came to Victoria, and tonight was no exception. Her hair fell in dark, messy waves around her naked face. She was dressed for bed, a harsh reminder of the late hour. In the winter months, she always came to bed buried under layers of clothing- pajamas, socks, sweaters, but in the summer, she preferred something less. Billy, too, preferred the something less. Tonight, the something less she wore under an open, matching robe was simple and white, no lace or adornments on the shiny fabric that skimmed her body loosely from the visible tips of her breasts down to her thighs. But Billy knew from experience that its simplicity was misleading, that it was made from the finest silk available.

"I didn't-I didn't mean to wake you," he stammered, meeting her eyes squarely for the first time tonight. "I'm sorry."

"You didn't," she finally spoke. His gaze was unnerving, his presence still a shock, and in response, she looked away and wrapped her arms around herself. "I, um, I couldn't really sleep. Not after…"

She didn't finish the sentence, but Billy nodded a quiet understanding of the unspoken, the first acknowledgement that they both knew about Katherine's death. "Johnny asleep?"

She nodded her head and offered nothing more.

"The, uh, the storm didn't scare him?" He was making small talk, and all the while, he was aware of how ridiculous it was. He was standing in his home, or what had been his home until recently, in the middle of the night making small talk with his wife, all to avoid saying the things he should be saying, the things his stubborn male pride prevented him from saying.

"A little," she said and narrowed her eyes in concentration, or maybe it was confusion, as she tried to figure out what exactly he had come for. "The thunder woke him once, but he went right back to sleep. He can sleep through just about anything, you know? Just like his dad."

Billy's mouth turned up in a sort of half smile at her words, but when he felt the sting of tears and the ache of an old wound, he looked down at his fidgeting hands. He imagined their son startled awake by a noise, and he imagined Victoria comforting him back to sleep. He imagined all those people who warned him he would never be like his father, and he wanted to tell his wife that if he had anything to do with it, the tradition would continue and Johnny would turn out nothing like him. His son wouldn't be a coward or a screw-up. He wouldn't have demons that hurt the people he loved over and over again. He wouldn't do anything that would keep him from his family. He would love openly and never doubt the love he received. And he would never stand in front of the woman he loved and not be able to tell her the things he needed to say.

"I don't know why I'm here, Vick," he choked out with a shrug of his shoulders. He forced his eyes up to meet hers, until the weight of honesty was too much and he had to look away again.

"I drove around," he started again, remembering the returned phone call to his mother and how he had feared that death would taste like coffee from now on. "I drove around for a long time. My mom, she-she wanted me to come to the mansion, but I couldn't. I couldn't sit there and listen to people talk about funerals and burial plans and, and… And I couldn't go back to Jack's because it would have just been more of the same there. People saying things like 'she lived a long life' and 'she'll never really be gone.' So then I just-I ended up here. I ended up here because it was the only place I wanted to be. Because I need my wife. I need you."

He was fighting the tears, but he was losing. He rubbed roughly at the back of his neck as if that would stop them, and though he sensed he was on the verge of losing it and wanted nothing more than to retreat, he wouldn't. Not tonight.

"I know I don't have the right to be here, Vick. Or to expect you to want me here. I know that. I do. And I didn't mean to bother you. I just thought… I could maybe sit on the couch… in the dark for a little while…and remember what it was like. What it was like to have everything."

The way he was looking at her, wet-faced and lost, was her undoing. She eased down one step and then another so that she was nearly face to face with him, that last step giving her a slight height advantage still.

"She's gone, Victoria," he cried. "She's really gone this time, isn't she?"

She reached for him, pulled him to her forcefully, an embrace so strong she lost her balance and had to grab onto the banister to keep them both from falling over. He grabbed onto her like a lifeline, wrapping his arms around her waist, caught between her robe and nightgown so that the heat of his arms penetrated her skin. He released his grief onto her, his tears wet on her chest, and Victoria simply held on, letting him cry as she stroked his back.

When she felt him grow calm, Victoria slid her hands up to his shoulders, her touch light, gentle as they made contact with the skin of his neck. Cradling his head, a thumb on either side of his face, her fingers locked in the fullness of his hair, she tilted his face up until their eyes met. There were no words she could say to make him feel better, nothing she could say to make herself feel better. Not tonight anyway. So she kissed him instead, a soft, chaste kiss to the middle of his forehead. He closed his eyes to receive her gift, and when he did she placed another kiss on first one cheek and then the other.

What was meant to be an innocent form of comfort soon turned to something else. Her mouth lingered just a little too long on his cheek, and when she did pull her lips away, she remained close, too close. Billy was acutely aware of every detail, the feel of her flesh beneath the silk at her waist, the flutter of eyelashes against his face, the quickness of her heart pulsating at every point of contact. Or maybe it was his heartbeat. Their faces were so close that every sweet breath she exhaled was his next, and all he wanted to do, all he had wanted to do since he first laid eyes on her heavenly presence tonight, was kiss her.

"It's late," she breathed into his ear.

Billy felt the sinking of disappointment in the pit of his stomach, but quickly chose to give it up. It was enough. What she had given him, this moment, it would be enough. He would make it be enough. He would turn around and walk out the door. He would go to Jack's and not do anything stupid because a few minutes in her arms, that was enough, enough to remember what he still had to gain.

He relaxed his grip on her waist and allowed a narrow space to ease between them. Her hands slid from his face, one falling to her side, the other she placed on top of one of his. Billy took it as a sign to go, but when he went to pull away, her hand remained with his, her fingers linking with his.

"You should sleep," she said to his puzzled face and then turned to start up the stairs. The length of their joined arms elongated, until the tug prompted Billy to either break the connection or follow her. He followed. And the heavy clomp of his shoes echoed the soft padding of her bare feet, one slow step at a time.

If for a minute he supposed she was leading him to the guestroom or even to Johnny's room where he could spend the night in a chair and let the lullaby of baby's breath soothe him, he was soon proven wrong. She did take him to the nursery, but not to stay. They stood over the crib, hand in hand still, and watched the gentle rise and fall of their son's chest, proof that he was both breathing fine and sleeping peacefully. Victoria let go of Billy's hand long enough to pull Johnny's twisted blanket free and smooth it back across his body, and when they were both convinced he was in dreamland for the night, they tiptoed out as quietly as they had entered.

And then, without him knowing exactly how, they were outside the bedroom, their bedroom. The door was partially open, and with her free hand, Victoria widened the entrance and welcomed him into the soft glow provided by the bedside lamp. Her side of the bed was unmade, with pillows stacked and indented against the headboard, while his side remained untouched, unslept in for weeks. Her bedside table told him the story of her evening. There was a cup and saucer teetering on the edge, the string of a teabag cascading down the side, and next to it, a book, opened midway and lying pages side down. Billy didn't need to read the faded, hunched spine to know which book it was. It had to be Twain, a collection of his quotes her father had given her. It was the book she always went to for comfort, but it seemed that tonight Twain hadn't been enough.

The bedroom door closed gently behind him, and Billy felt suddenly strange in a room he had always been so comfortable in. It was the sensation of having fidgeting hands and no pockets to cage them in, except it was his whole body that felt out of place. So, he sat, on the end of the bed while Victoria flitted about the room, securing the cup and saucer, closing the book, turning down his side of the bed, removing the robe that matched the something less she was wearing and hanging it across the end of the bed, right next to him. His eyes followed her through all of her tasks, trying to discern what she would do next, but when she stopped, no chores left to busy herself with, he realized she felt as strange as he did. It was just that she handled it different. She always handled things different.

Billy envied her burst of nervous energy. He was so drained he felt like a blob of putty waiting to be formed into something useful, something alive. As if reading his mind, Victoria dropped slowly to her knees in front of him and sat back against her legs, a reversal of the height advantage she had had earlier on the staircase. She reached for him, one hand taking hold of the back of his left leg, lifting it enough so that her other hand could slide his shoe from his foot. She then peeled away his sock, caressing the newly uncovered skin before gently returning his foot to the floor. She did the same for his right foot, just as lovingly, just as slowly, and when she was done, she rose to her knees and tentatively placed the palms of her hands on his denim-covered thighs.

Her blue eyes were on his, and the tightening in his chest made him realize he hadn't taken a breath in a long time. He released the air he was holding as Victoria's hands slid farther up his legs, stopping when she reached the buttoned ends of his shirt. One by one, she undid them, and in doing so undid him. When each tiny circle had been released, she rose to her feet and pulled him with her. Her hands pushed away enough of his shirt to allow her delicate hands inside. She touched him, her fingertips grazing his warm, soft skin, lingering in the light wisps of hair in the center of his chest before dancing their way to his shoulders and easing the fabric from his body. She had complete control of him, and he was letting her, letting her take care of him, but still there was a question looming in the back of his mind.

An assumption had been made when he followed her up the stairs, an assumption that had seemed confirmed when she brought him to their bedroom instead of the guestroom or Johnny's room or any other room in the house. But maybe he was crazy, or drunk after all. Or worse, maybe he had lost his ability to read her. Maybe she had only intended for him to sleep, but the more she touched him, the more alive he became, the more the grief and the darkness receded into memory. And she had to know, she had to know the effect she was having on him. She had to know that when her hands moved to his waist, fumbling to free his belt, her fingers scraping against the tender skin beneath his jeans as she worked on the button and then the zipper, that there was only thing on his mind. She was too close to him not to know his desire for her, too close not to know that he was dizzy with the need to kiss her.

So he did, catching her off guard, capturing her lower lip between his. He grabbed her hips for balance and pulled her mouth harder against his. She responded with the same hunger, the hunger of weeks apart, her hands working feverishly to push the last bits of clothing from his body, while Billy's hands found themselves full of gathered silk. But then he stopped, suddenly, out of breath and full of reservation. He had to know. He had to hear it from her. Before things went any further, he had to know for certain. This, them, it couldn't be another thing she resented him for.

Her face was flushed when he dared to look at her, her lips were swollen, her chest heaving, her eyes round with passion. Her body was telling him she wanted it, but it wasn't enough. He had to know that she wanted it.

"Vick?" he asked in a whisper so raw and tender it hurt.

She swallowed hard and cast a glance down to where her nightgown was gathered in Billy's hands up to her waist, exposing more of her, but modest compared to him. Fixing her eyes on his again, Victoria's hands floated away from his skin, rising as if carried by a breeze, rising until they extended above her head like the graceful branches of a tree. This was her sign. Clear. Certain. Unwavering. And her eyes, those expressive blue orbs, confirmed that this was what she had wanted, that he was what she wanted. She was offering him love and comfort, but beyond that, Billy saw for the first time tonight, that what she was offering she was asking for in return. She needed him. She needed him to comfort her. To hold her. To love her. Because her heart was broken too, and he had been too selfish to notice before.

Billy relaxed his hands, letting the silky material that had grown taut with her movement, fall back against her body. He saw the questioning look on her face, the awful fear of rejection, but he ignored it, his hands reaching lower, sliding beneath the silk he had just held, his palms flattening against her thighs. Her eyes flashed closed for an instant at his touch, and a needy sigh fell from her lips as his hands began a journey up her body, over the hardness of her hips and the thin straps that covered either side, over the soft inward curve of her stomach, and up the rippled ridges of her ribs, which made her flinch against his ticklish touch. As his thumbs caressed the full underside of her breasts, coming close to but never touching their sensitive tips, the pool of silk forming between his arms grew larger and larger the higher he went. He never stopped looking into her eyes, losing sight of her face only for the brief passage of silk up the extended length of her arms until fingertips finally met fingertips and the silk pool cascaded to the floor behind Victoria. Only then did he break her gaze, following the reverse journey of his hands back down her body. Yes, he thought to himself, the remembrance of some things could never be as beautiful as their reality.

It occurred to Billy then that "making love" was a ridiculous euphemism. You couldn't make something as precious as love. You could give it if you were generous. You could receive it if you were lucky. You could show it if you were brave. And you could share it if you were blessed. But you couldn't make it. The love had to already be there, and how you got that, Billy wasn't sure.

As he kissed her again, softly this time, to make it last, Billy vowed that tonight he would be generous and lucky and brave and most of all, blessed.

It was amazing the things you could see in the dark, once your eyes were given the chance to adapt to their new reality. Given time and just the tiniest bit of light, darkness always receded into shades of grey, shadows that became more and more familiar: a chair, a lamp, a person. Over the years, Victoria had become an expert at seeing in the dark. She could navigate her way down the stairs, to the kitchen for a bottle, and back up to the nursery with little more than the light on the baby monitor.

Tonight, in the dark, she used her expertise to watch Billy fall asleep. After their bodies had surrendered to a violent pleasure, after they had melted against each other and then collapsed against soft sheets, breathless and immune to hurt and pain, she watched him. She watched him from where she lay on her side, only inches away from him except for where their legs remained intertwined. He lay on his back, his face turned towards her, that curl of hair falling innocently across his forehead. He had possession of her, through his steady gaze and through the arm that had snaked its way between their bodies, under the sheet that covered them both only to their waists and planted itself firmly across her bare hip. A sheen of sweat covered his chest, making the rise and fall more visible in the dark. She watched as his breathing returned to normal and then slowed to a contagious rhythm. His eyelids slipped lower and lower over eyes that were only blue in her memory. He was fighting sleep, the same way Johnny did, afraid he would miss something, that he would wake and she would be gone, that it all would prove to be a dream. For reassurance, she linked her arm over his possessive one, silently telling him she would be there all night. He finally conceded, allowing Victoria to witness the exact moment he gave in to sleep.

True darkness was a rare thing. There was almost always a sliver of moonlight, or the glow of a city in the distance, or a thread of light beneath a closed door, or dots of red from any number of electronics. But Victoria knew all too well that there were places completely devoid of light, like a room in a basement somewhere in Miami where it had been so dark she couldn't see her hand in front of her face. That kind of darkness made her feel small and helpless and hopeless. But even then there were the moments Eddie would come and flood the room with light, bringing her food and a phone where sometimes she could hear Billy's voice and remember that some kinds of light weren't visible.

And then there was that last room, where the men who killed Eddie took her, where they left her to die alone. Yet, even in that darkest moment, she had survived. Billy had saved her. Over and over again, she had lived through darkness and survived. That was why she never panicked at the sudden loss of light. She knew that eventually there would be light. There simply had to be light. Some people had a harder time believing that than others. People like Billy.

Morning was coming. It was still a few hours away, but she felt it, dreaded it. Things would be clearer in the morning, that was the promise people always made, presuming that time and light would make death more palatable. But really, it would only make Katherine's death more real and force the painful process of healing to begin.

And then there was Billy. In the morning, she would have to face him in more than moonlight or lamplight. And that scared her more than any dark space ever could. She hadn't imagined her night ending like this when her mother called and told her about Katherine. Or maybe she was lying to herself and had known he would be in her bed, their bed, the moment he stumbled through the front door. She didn't regret it. It had felt right from the first touch, still felt right. But this moment of feeling right changed absolutely nothing, for her anyway. She still wasn't ready to forgive, still wasn't ready for him to come home. And he wasn't ready either, no matter how he protested that he was. And that's what worried her, that in the clear light of morning he would see tonight as forgiveness, the final step in their healing.

In the dark, Victoria moved Billy's possessive arm off of her hip, raising it carefully until she could tuck herself beneath it, finding a spot to lay her head on his chest. In his sleep, Billy responded from memory, accepting her, pulling her closer to him. She would give herself the rest of the night to be with him, and when the morning came, well she prayed that when morning came, things would be clearer, for both of them.