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Chapter Forty-Six

T he drama was over. Hillary had been booked for Keith and Roman’s murders and the attempted murder of Claire. He couldn’t believe Hillary had tried to kill Claire with carbon monoxide. The tape recording of Keith dying was too ghoulish to think about.

Joe was on his way over to Claire’s house.

She had called him earlier and wanted to talk.

When a woman wanted to talk, nothing good usually came of it, and in his estimation, it was akin to being flayed alive.

He just knew it was going to end badly. He wanted her so much.

The speech he’d prepared to give her about moving into his house was spinning out of control.

Did she want to be with him? Was she willing to give up her house?

He would move in with her, but she hadn’t asked.

So many questions and he was about to get the answers.

He got out of his truck to sunny skies. He wished his mood were sunny.

He inhaled the salty spray. It was beautiful and peaceful at the beach, but he liked the privacy and quiet of his own house.

This spot was perfect for Claire and her painting.

It was also spacious, unlike his little ranch.

She was wealthy and could afford anything she wanted.

He made good money but nowhere near what she had.

The self-doubts plagued him up the walk.

She was lovable. He wasn’t. Gah, what was he doing to himself ?

He shook his head. A woman says, “Let’s talk,” and he falls to pieces.

He rang the bell.

The door opened immediately. Claire stood there, backlit by the sun, her chestnut hair glinting. She looked like an angel. His angel.

“Hi,” she said brightly and took his hand. “Come on in. Coffee?”

He nodded. As he looked around, he noticed all the furniture had covers on them. Boxes were half-packed—a suitcase in the hall.

“Claire, what’s going on?”

“Oh, Joe, I have so much to tell you. Let me make coffee, and we can talk.”

Not good, not good at all. Joe strolled into the bright kitchen.

Everything was in disarray—pots on the counter, boxes here and there.

Claire puttered around and found some cups and the coffee pot.

He watched her place the coffee grounds in the pot and turn it on.

He sat down at the table and looked at the long list she had written. First up on the list: Talk to Joe.

His heart was pounding. Trickles of sweat ran down his shirt collar. She smiled at him, and he just wanted to kiss the hell out of her, fling her over his shoulder, put her in his truck, and bring her home. To his home.

“Are you leaving?” Duh, of course, she was leaving. But for where? And for how long? And would he be able to keep her in his life?

She sat down and took one of his hands in hers. “That’s what I want to speak with you about.” She exhaled. “I have to go back to New York to finish some business with the lawyers. I’ve decided to sell the house, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do, stay here or move up north.”

Joe sat there, stunned. Yes, the hints were all around him, but to hear her say what she was going to do still stunned him.

“Move?” He jerked his head back and shivered. Yeah, the evidence was right in front of him that she was packing. Still, hearing the words made it real.

“Not sure. I’ll figure it out when I get to my parents’.” She cocked her head. “What do you think?”

Think? I think this is a terrible idea. I need you. I want you.

“You have to do what you think is best for you.”

What else could he say? She needed to grow, to find her way in the world. Not have another man tell her what to do, what to feel, how to live. She was free to choose, free to love, and free to be the woman she wanted to be with the man she chose to love.

She needed to go back to New York to reclaim her life, her self-respect. He wasn’t going to stop her. Then, maybe, when all was said and done, she would come back to him. Or not.

“Well, you have to do what you think is best for you.”

Well, that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

What she hoped to hear was that Joe loved her, wanted her to stay or move in with him.

“Do what you think is best for you” was not the answer she wanted.

What was wrong with the man? Didn’t he realize how much she needed him, wanted him, loved him?

He was her first love, and here they were, making the same mistakes they made when they were young—sacrificing for each other—not talking it through.

He sat there stoically, and she wanted to shake him .

However, she did have to go back to New York. Carl Fitzgerald had called her about signing some final papers. She wanted to visit her parents and sister. She was definitely selling the beach house. Too many bad memories of Hillary trying to kill her here.

Good memories too. The first place to call her own.

Joe making sweet love to her in the bedroom.

Her studio with its gorgeous view. But she could paint anywhere.

She wanted to be with Joe. She loved his sweet ranch.

She loved seeing him there. Why couldn’t he see that?

She’d loved him all these years, and he was still beyond her reach. He still felt he was unlovable.

Claire sighed. She was going to be gone for a while, and she hoped Joe would come to his senses and know that she loved him and wanted him.

If he thought he was letting her go, he would be in for a surprise .

I won’t let that happen again. She would make sure he came to his senses one way or the other.

His actions told her that he loved her. Why couldn’t he just say the words?

Why did he have to feel that he wasn’t worthy of love?