Taking a sip, he watched intently as Claire waged an internal war. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed watching the battle of wills behind her eyes. As she began to take a drink, he laughed at the outcome. She’d just lost and he’d watched it all.
“I hope you’re amused.” She placed the glass back on the table without drinking. “I believe I’m getting a headache. We’ll need to postpone this dinner for another time.”
As she began to push herself away from the table, his heart raced. Tony wouldn’t allow her to leave, not now, not after so much time. He reached across the table and covered her hand. Summoning his most gentle touch, he explained. After all, that was what Catherine had said to do—to have faith. Let Claire decide. She couldn’t decide if she didn’t know his intent. Sheepishly, he implored, “Claire, I’d like you to stay. Your plans are to be commended. You probably know, but even without the clothes I sent, you’re stunning. Now, if we’re done with this ridiculous posturing, I’d like to talk with you for a while.”
“This wasn’t meant as posturing!” Her tone was hushed and harsh. “I assure you, my head does hurt.”
“I have missed you terribly.” He didn’t intend to say it so bluntly, but he had to let her know. “I have missed your voice, your strength, your smile, and mostly, your eyes. My God, Claire, you have the most amazing eyes!”
“Stop it.”
“Excuse me?” Had she just ordered him to stop talking? Didn’t she realize how hard this was?
“I said, stop it!” The emerald fire intensely burned. She continued, “The last time we spoke in person, I begged to go with you back to your home, our home in Iowa City. As I recall, you offered me a psychiatric institution, so why would I be interested in listening to your drivel today?”
His mind spun. Explain yourself—that was what Catherine had said. He tried. “Well, first, because you accepted my invitation.”
“I accepted your invitation for one reason, to convince you to leave me alone. We are done!”
“My dear, it isn’t that simple.” His tone was flat, leaving no room for debate. He wasn’t going to argue the concept, no matter how ludicrous it was. She was his forever. Done wasn’t an option.
“It is.” Yet he heard the uncertainty in her voice, until her next emphasized word smashed his world to smithereens. “Anton.”
The floor fell from the room. Or perhaps it was the ceiling that fell. Tony wasn’t sure what just happened, but as prepared as he had been for the evening, nothing could have prepared him for that. Straightening his neck, he fought the red. Through clenched teeth, he replied, “My name is Anthony, but you may still address me as Tony.”
“That’s very gentlemanly of you. Do you not think that, as your wife, I deserved to know your true name was Anton Rawls?”
He fought to stay seated. It was like coming out of the effects of the poison: he clawed to reach the surface—the place where his world was intact. Those two words—Anton Rawls—spoken by Claire, ripped away the veil separating his past from his present. With a semblance of calm, he asked, “Where could you possibly have come up with such a story?”
“Why, Anton, it was in your box of confessions.”
What the hell was she talking about? His voice gained strength with each syllable. “I assure you, I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“The information you sent me in prison.”
Before they could continue, a waiter appeared beside their table with menus. Placing the binders in front of them, he asked if they were interested in hearing about the specials. Concurrently, they answered, “No.” The waiter apologized for the interruption and meekly backed away from the table. Tony worked to process her words. Box. Confession. Prison. He squeezed the menu tighter.
Claire’s voice pulled him from the whirlwind of questions. If she knew that, what else did she know? “Are you saying you didn’t send me a box of information?”
Looking her in the eye, he confirmed, “I can assure you, I did not send you anything while you were in prison, and speaking of prison, congratulations on your early release.” He made no attempt to suppress the sarcasm that saturated his final statement; he was too busy processing.
“Thank you, I promise that I was as surprised as you must have been.”
Tony harrumphed as he took another drink of his wine, wishing it were bourbon. Once, he emptied the glass he poured another. After a hearty drink of the second glass, the calming effects began to settle his nerves and he replied, “That, my dear, is debatable.”
He concentrated on the menu as Claire mentioned entrees that she’d enjoyed. Slowly, the tension began to subside as they superficially chatted about the options. Tony worked to control his thoughts and actions and salvage their reunion dinner. Her information, knowledge, and depth of that knowledge would all need to be assessed. Of course, he hadn’t sent her information in prison. But if not him—who? That wasn’t even the question; Tony knew whom. The question was why?
As he ordered their meals in French, he noticed Claire smile. He’d meant to surprise her with her entrée for it was the one she’d mentioned; however, it was obvious that she understood everything he and the waiter had said. Once they were alone, he tested his theory. Speaking in French, he said, “I see that you’ve broadened your language portfolio.”