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Chapter Eleven

C laire thought it would be awkward being with Joe, but she was wrong.

She sat at the small table and watched Joe as he moved around the kitchen.

A scene that she sure wasn’t familiar with since Keith hardly ever stepped foot in the kitchen.

The sun flashed in and out as it went behind clouds and peeked out again.

The rays bounced off the frying pan and highlighted Joe’s back.

He was gorgeous. All muscle and sinew. Sex on a stick.

Stop. You’re off men—forever. Remember? Claire remembered all right. But still.

“Claire. Claire?”

She was startled out of her thoughts by the sexy man in front of her. She hoped he hadn’t seen her ogling him. Thankfully, his back had been toward her.

“Yes, Joe?”

“I wanted to know if you liked eggs.” Joe had turned around from the refrigerator door to look at her. He had pulled out bread, butter, and bacon and placed them on the counter. “I can make eggs any way or French toast or both,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hmmm. I like both, but I haven’t had French toast in forever.” Her mouth watered thinking about the rich, eggy bread concoction.

It wasn’t as if Keith ever allowed her to eat such rich food. Food he considered fattening. Had to keep her perfect figure, after all.

“French toast it is.”

She watched Joe as he cracked eggs, added milk, a touch of sugar and cinnamon, and melted the butter.

He dipped and placed four slices in the pan; her nostrils quivered as the sugary bread sizzled in the hot butter.

Her tummy grumbled at that moment. Her taste buds salivated at the thought of putting the pillowy confection in her mouth.

He casually flipped the French toast when ready and put two slices on a plate with bacon.

After placing a plate and maple syrup—real maple syrup—in front of her, he refilled her coffee cup and handed her a glass of orange juice.

“Oh my.” She sighed, “I haven’t had a feast like this in a long time. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I have to eat. You have to eat.” He winked at her, made himself a plate and sat down.

They made small talk, but it was mostly a comfortable silence. It took them little time to consume the food and then put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

Claire let out a deep breath. It had been so long since a man had helped her in the kitchen. It was nice, and Joe was comfortable to be around—always had been. They laughed and joked about high school for a while until Joe got serious.

“Let’s go into the living room. I want to know how I can help you,” said Joe as he folded the dishtowel he was using.

No. Let’s not . Sadness overtook Claire. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer. Her face felt flushed. She did not want Joe to know any more of what she had gone through. It was too embarrassing. And what would he think of her for allowing the abuse to continue?

She followed Joe into the living room with a cup of coffee in her hand. She took the comfy chair she inhabited the night before and closed her eyes.

“Claire,” said Joe softly. “Honey. Look at me.”

She opened her eyes and looked at the man the boy had become.

“Nothing you can tell me should be embarrassing. Abusers know how to isolate and terrify their victims. One day you’re fine; the next you’re in the middle of a shitstorm and can’t find your way out.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but still…”

“You are not to blame,” he said emphatically. And then repeated, as if willing her to believe, “You are not to blame.”

She exhaled. Her shoulders slumped. “I know I’m not to blame. But I’m embarrassed that I didn’t leave sooner.”

Was the room getting hotter? She rubbed and loosened the collar of her shirt. Claire felt like she was in a furnace. Never in a million years would she have thought she would be sitting here telling Joe Harkin about the abuse she endured.

“The abuse happened so gradually. One day I was a happily married woman. The next, I didn’t have any friends or a job.

I was afraid to speak to my parents and sister because of what Keith implied he would do if I misbehaved.

” She looked down at her hands. Was that a new mole on her hand?

How many did she have? How come she never noticed them before?

“Claire, look at me.”

Could she keep counting moles?

She didn’t want to see the pity on Joe’s face.

Abused women didn’t talk about the abuse.

Most people looked at abused women as if they had two heads and wondered what was wrong with them.

Times were changing, but it still seemed like the blame was on the woman, or it was implied the situation couldn’t have been that bad, could it?

Not many challenged the men. The police needed physical evidence to do anything.

And most abused women were afraid to go to the police.

If the police intervened and nothing happened, the woman was in danger or if they arrested the abuser, the woman was still in danger. Women were on their own.

The only thing that had saved her sanity was that she never felt like she was to blame for Keith’s actions. That was all on him. And she had escaped, although living on the run, afraid of when Keith would show up, wasn’t really living.

“Claire. Sweetheart. Look at me,” he insisted as she lifted her head. “I’m so sorry, hon. I wish I had been around to help you.” Joe pursed his lips. His fingers clenched into fists. “I want to beat the shit out of him.”

Then he looked at her, hurt in his eyes. “If I had known…” He stopped. His jaw clenched. “If I had known, I could’ve, would’ve stopped it.”

Oh, Joe. I don’t think anyone could have stopped it. “Well, I’m here now and looking forward to rebuilding my life.”

“I’m here to help with that.” He gave her that small smile she loved.

Could he tell she was scared senseless? That she had no idea how to rebuild her life with no money, no job, no life, and was always looking over her shoulder?

In addition, she was not sure how to process being with Joe.

He not only dumped her after high school but he left.

Even though he knew she wanted to be with him.

Hardly took time to say goodbye, have a nice life, before he was off to join the Navy.

She’d been left empty. Devastated. Hurt.

But that was years ago. She’d gotten past the hurt.

Hadn’t she? It had taken a long time to get over those feelings, and now they were dredged up again.

A heart-to-heart conversation with Joe needed to happen at some point .

“So, tell me, do you still paint?”

Well, that came out of left field. Paint? Visions of spilled paint and slashed canvases filled her mind. She shook her head. “No, Keith didn’t like my painting. Took too much of my time.”

“Bastard.” He shook his head. “Will you tell me how you met him? Why did you fall in love with him? Was he always controlling?”

Claire felt a flush creeping down her cheeks.

Her mouth dried up. She coughed and cleared her throat.

Could she curl up and disappear right now?

Maybe if she clicked her heels, she could be transported to Oz.

If she thought talking to Sam and Mark had been humiliating, it was nothing compared with telling Joe.

The boy who thought she was perfect. How could she tell her humiliating story to the man she had laughed with and coveted for years? She didn’t want his pity.

Strong, calloused hands covered hers. Joe was kneeling in front of her. His dark brown eyes glistened with tears. “Claire, nothing you can say will ever change my mind about how I see you. You are a strong woman who, through no fault of her own, ended up in a bad situation.”

She wiped the corners of his eyes with her thumbs, ran her fingers down his cheeks. “Oh, I was strong for a while, but Keith’s constant intrusion into every hour of the day wore me down.”

Joe moved back to the sofa, bringing Claire to sit beside him. He held her hand, motioned with his head to continue.

“I met Keith at the art gallery I was working at. I had a few paintings on display that were for sale. He said he liked my pictures, and we talked for hours. When the gallery closed, he asked if I wanted to get a drink and continue our conversation. It was still early, so I said yes.

“From that night on, he pursued me, and God help me, I loved it. I had gone on a few dates with a friend of his. I thought Mason and I were good friends, but apparently, Mason wanted more. Keith insinuated himself in my life, and Mason stopped coming around. Keith would send flowers; he wined and dined me. He made me laugh. We went on a couple of weekend trips. He encouraged me to paint. He was interesting and smart. After three months, he asked me to marry him. It was fast, but I was so in love, I said yes.”

Oh, it had been happy times at first. Keith had a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue. He had set up a studio for her with wonderful sunlight. They made love all the time. They were happy—for a while.

“The abuse started a few months into our marriage. Keith let the housekeeper go, saying I could do a better job, plus he didn’t like having another person in the house.

But he didn’t like the way I cleaned. I was punished for that.

He didn’t want me to work, so I quit the gallery and took the job at the museum two days a week without pay.

Some of the wives in our social circle worked there, and that way he could keep tabs on me. ”

Joe sighed and tapped his fingers on her arm. “Usually children repeat what they learned at home. Was his father an abuser?”

“His father never liked me. Keith had alluded to problems between his father and mother. He always told me that his father advised him to control whoever he married. Keith had laughed about that. Should have known then.”

“What an example to set for your kid.” He shook his head. “You never left him or sought out a divorce lawyer?”