October 31st
Dana finished her café au lait and contemplated another order. She'd already had two cups, but the thought of going home to empty silence held no appeal. Besides, she hadn't eaten anything to speak of yesterday and now she was hungry for once.
She got up to put in her order and glanced at the day outside as she waited. It was miserable—blustery, cold and rainy, the same pattern they'd dealt with all year off and on. It would be a bad night for the children out trick or treating. She'd been invited to a party, but the weather gave her a good excuse to stay home. She had no real desire to socialize, anyway.
That's been true for some time now. She ignored the internal comment, took her coffee and second chocolate croissant with thanks and went back to her spot. At least she had her journals, and a new translation of Balzac a patient had given her in the erroneous assumption that she liked his work. She'd do her best to read it anyway. It kept her mind occupied, and that was enough excuse.
She'd finished with one journal and started on the next when someone stole the last bite of chocolate croissant she'd left on her plate. Dana looked up, but whatever she'd planned to say flew straight out of her head.
"Ha." Greg lifted a brow. "Knew that would make you pay attention."
Her first coherent thought was he's so thin. The second was he's got a prosthesis. He wore his usual outfit—pea coat, a tee under an oxford shirt, jacket, jeans and sneaks—and his cane was new, heavier and built with a better grip. But he was close enough for her to see his knuckles were white, and there was sharp anxiety behind the mockery in his vivid gaze.
Dana sat back and didn't speak. She had nothing to say anyway—shock had robbed her of words for the moment. Greg moved to the spot opposite her and settled into the chair. He managed it fairly well, but it was clear it wasn't easy. He set the cane aside, reached out and took her cup, tasted the contents, made a face.
"Like a little coffee with your milk?" She didn't reply, just watched him. He pushed the cup toward her. "So you're not speaking to me. That's so uninspired. You've had six months to think up another approach." When she didn't answer Greg dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "You're planning to leave town and you didn't call." He sounded almost sullen. She took her cup back. "You could have called." She kept quiet. "So this is about one-upmanship."
"No." It came out just as she hoped it would, cool and disinterested. Greg's gaze flashed up to hers. Just for a moment she saw what lay behind the mocking façade—pain, fear, and a sorrow so profound it took her breath. Then it was gone, tucked away behind a glower.
Silence fell, broken by the clatter of dishes, muted conversation and soft music. After a few moments Dana picked up her pen and opened the second journal. She had no idea how she would be able to concentrate, but it didn't really matter right now anyway. This exchange had to play out before she could act or make a final decision.
"So that's it. You make me come to you first and now you plan to ignore me." Greg sounded disgusted. Dana didn't look up at him.
"No." She kept her tone calm and said nothing more.
"You're a control freak. You should know that already, I don't have to remind you." He hesitated. "Need some caffeine," he muttered, and got to his feet. It took him a few moments to get steady. Then he turned and went to the counter. Dana watched him charm the server into the delivery of a plate of raisin bars and his double espresso to the table. When he returned, he took a couple of bars and pushed the rest toward her. "Eat. You're too skinny." Dana pretended not to see the plate. Greg gave it a nudge with his finger. "Go on."
She put down her pen. "No thank you."
"Come on, you know you're hungry." He bit into a bar, made loud chewing noises. A wave of humiliation surged through her. She knew that to give in to it would be disastrous, but neither would she endure being goaded.
"Gregory." She used a quiet tone, but she saw him wince all the same. She tried to hang onto her detachment; it was all she had left to keep her from an emotional display that would only make things worse. "Why are you here?"
"Uh oh." He opened his eyes wide, stuffed the last of the raisin bar into his mouth and spoke through the food. "I'm in trouble."
So much for detachment. Dana set her coffee aside and shoved back her chair. As she rose Greg reached out and grasped her wrist. She resisted the urge to pull free, even as she noted his fingers were cold. He'd expect her to react, and she'd be damned if she'd make any gesture that would give him a chance to hurt her even more.
"Going somewhere?" The derisive note in his words slapped at her.
"I came here to work. That's no longer possible." She stayed still. "Let go of me please."
"You're a hypocrite." He sounded angry now. "You wanted to talk, here I am." Dana closed her eyes. She remembered her mother, white-faced and trembling with fury at some careless, cruel remark from her husband, and at the heart of it, a wound so deep maman wouldn't know its true cost until much later. "So that's it. You'll just leave Philadelphia, and plant yourself someplace else where you can forget you made a mistake with someone like me."
She knew she should work with him, that he used provocation in an attempt to break her professional mask and spill everything stored up within, and yet she couldn't let it go unanswered. "You say that to me—you come here after—after months of silence . . ." She heard her voice shake and hated her weakness. "How dare you come here, to a place you—you know means home and refuge for me . . ." Tears stung her eyes. "All to mock me for telling the truth when-when you never wanted to hear it." She stared down at his hand. "Let go."
"Dana." His fingers loosened a bit he didn't release her. "I want to hear it now, but you have to listen-"
She yanked her hand away. "You know the truth! You knew it six months ago. Don't turn this around on me! I'm not the one who—who decided-" Blindly she grabbed for her laptop, slapped it shut, stuffed it in her messenger bag with the journals, snatched up her purse. "I didn't make the decision to amputate. And that's the last time I'll ever say it. Believe me or don't." She turned to flee, unable to stand having him so near.
"Wait!" He stood and leaned in so his face was close to hers. "I believe you. Dana," he raised his voice. "I believe you."
She hesitated, afraid to look at him. He exhaled. "Sit down." She didn't move. "Okay. Please sit down."
Much against her better judgment, she turned back to the table, moved her chair, sat. Greg did the same. She stared at the tabletop.
"I'm sure this isn't news to you, but when I get scared, I . . . I push people away." She could barely hear him. "When the accident happened . . . when I woke up and it was—was like before, when the blood clot happened, I . . . I . . ." He paused. "Say something, dammit!" Dana shook her head, unable to speak. Greg sighed. "It's the six months thing, isn't it? I don't—I—I just said I push people away—"
"Trust." She almost couldn't get the word past her lips. "You don't trust me. Maybe you never really have."
"I do. Dana, I trust you. I believe you." He sounded desperate now. "If you don't trust me, I-I don't blame you."
"You want to prove your self-imposed rules to be true." He had come to her first, but she'd underestimated the enormity of her own pain and anger. This was the pitfall of a personal relationship with a client, and now both of them would have to pay the price for her choice. "You needed to see what would break me . . . break us. I think you've just found out. Congratulations. You get to be right. I hope it's enough." She got to her feet once more, gathered up her things, and went to the counter. "He's paying," she told the server, and walked out into the cold rain.