Heart of Clay (11 page)

“I’m too stubborn and mean to die, yet.”
Callan offered the first glimpse of a smile Clay had seen since the
holidays ended.

“I’m not quite ready to test the theory.”
Clay gave her a quick kiss before setting her down. He stood and
pulled her up beside him. “I think we should call this a day and
get you to bed.”

While she went to ready herself for bed,
Clay turned off the TV and blew out the candles, wondering what
Callan had been about to say before the asthma attack. What did she
mean when she said killing our… what? What did she think they’d
killed? Their love? Their future? Their dreams?

He knew she was in no shape to continue the
conversation tonight, but he planned to find out exactly what she
started to say.

Soon.

Callan made an effort to keep her ranting
and crying to a minimum at home, but she struggled to hold herself
together. If anything, she felt progressively worse each day. Truth
be told, she thought it was entirely possible that she would fly
into pieces at any given moment.

She promoted her event planning business at
three regional bridal shows since the first of the month. That
afternoon, she’d fly with Jill for a two-day trade show for the
convention center. The last thing she wanted to do was get on a
plane and fly out of town, but duty called.

Hurriedly finishing a few last minute
details, she turned off her computer, put on her coat and gloves,
grabbed her purse, and headed out the door.

She tried to remember if she told Clay she’d
be gone for a few days. He was asleep when she arrived home late
the previous evening and gone before she awoke that morning. Never
forgetful, the fact that she couldn’t recall telling him about the
trip added to her irritation. It went against her need to be in
control, organized, and on top of all details.

After arriving at the airport, Callan
checked her bag and quickly made it through security. She found her
gate and noted the flight should arrive on time. Jill sat on one of
the uncomfortable plastic chairs, reading a book to pass the time.
Callan waved her direction then decided to call Clay before the
plane began boarding.

She found a quiet corner and dialed his cell
number. No answer. She tried his office number. No answer there,
either. Looking at her watch, she realized he had a class starting
in a few minutes. She called his cell number again, prepared to
leave a message when he answered.

“Hey, Callan.” Clay spoke quietly as the
sound of students chatting filled the background. “I’m heading into
a class. Did you need something?”

Callan felt her temper rising even though
she didn’t know why. “No, I don’t need anything,” she said, anger
coloring her voice. “I’m calling to remind you I’ll be at the trade
show with Jill the next few days. We’ll be back on Friday.”

“What trade show?”Clay’s frustration came
through loud and clear as his voice raised considerably. “You never
mentioned being gone. Where are you headed?”

“The trade show in Las Vegas. Jill and I are
ready to board our plane. I left the hotel info on my desk at home,
if you want to talk later. I have to go. Bye.” Callan disconnected
the call before he could say anything further. Regret filled her at
being snippy with Clay as well as the obvious fact that he had no
idea she was going to be gone.

Callan turned off her phone, dug out her
boarding pass, and braced herself for the next few days of faking
the persona of a happy, upbeat professional.

Three days later, Callan couldn’t wait for
the plane to land. She just wanted to go home. It was an idiotic
error in judgment to think she could pull off this trip in her
current frame of mind.

By the end of the first day of the trade
show, the dull throbbing headache she’d had for weeks had turned
into a full-fledged migraine. Lights, sounds and smells made her
queasy and cranky. Rather than give in to it, though, she’d pasted
on a smile and shaken what seemed like hundreds of hands. The
second day of the show didn’t go any better and she’d taken so many
pain relievers along with the antacids, she wasn’t sure what would
happen if she exceeded her limit.

Thankfully, the trade show ended early so
she and Jill could fly home instead of spending another night away.
Arty repeatedly called both their cell phones. Jill finally
returned his call. He insisted they stop by the convention center
with a report of the event before they headed home that
evening.

To make matters even worse, Clay hadn’t
called her or answered the two times she’d called him.

Once they got through baggage claim, Callan
and Jill walked outside. Jill’s husband was supposed to pick her
up, but was nowhere in sight. After one last look around to make
sure he wasn’t there, Callan smiled at her friend and placed a hand
on her arm. “Come on. You can ride to the office with me and maybe
by then John will be available.”

“Thanks, Callan.” Jill called and left a
message for her husband to pick her up at the office instead of the
airport.

As she pulled into the conference center
parking lot, Callan braced herself mentally for the meeting with
Arty. She had no doubt sitting across from the incompetent man,
discussing the trade show, would tax what little patience she had
left.

She and Jill both rolled their eyes as they
walked into his office, finding him asleep in his chair. Callan
cleared her throat while Jill gently tapped on the doorjamb.

Snorting, Arty woke up and looked at them
with glazed eyes.

Jill stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Bierwagen.
We just got back from our trip. You said you wanted us to stop by
and let you know our thoughts about the trade show.”

“Oh, well, yes, I, um, yes,” he stammered,
sitting up and adjusting his tie. “Sit down. How did it go?”

“Excellent,” Callan said, trying to look out
the window instead of at Arty. He wore the remnants of his lunch on
his chin. “We made some great contacts and developed several
fantastic ideas for generating more revenue.”

“And all the ideas are simple and affordable
to implement. Isn’t that great?” Jill asked, trying to sound
enthusiastic.

“Yes, I suppose so, but don’t be spending
any money yet. We’ve got numbers to meet you know.” Arty twirled a
pen in his hand. Callan happened to notice it was her pen.

Without even thinking, she reached over and
jerked it out of his hand.

“Mr. Bierwagen,” she said, punctuating every
syllable. “Jill and I work very hard to make the convention center
successful. We are well aware of the budgeted numbers as well as
our need to meet them. We’ll continue to work to secure additional
business. A prepared report will be available for you and the board
next week. However, I must ask that you refrain from pilfering
through my office in my absence. This is my personal pen, as you
can see by the inscription. It was in my desk drawer when I left on
Wednesday. My personal property is not yours for the taking.”

“Well, I never,” Arty said, leaning forward
in his chair with his double chins wagging. “You better just watch
your smart mouth, missy, or you’ll be looking for a new job. Take
that as a warning. Now, both of you get out of here.”

She and Jill stood and left Arty’s office.
Neither one said a word as they walked outside to the Callan’s car.
Jill glanced up as her husband parked next to them. Callan quickly
took Jill’s suitcase from her trunk and passed it over to John.

“Thanks for the ride, Callan,” Jill said,
offering an encouraging hug. “Don’t worry about Arty. He’s bluffing
and you know it. If you want, I’d be happy to go with you to talk
to the board about him. This is beyond ridiculous.”

“Thanks, Jill. I may take you up on that
offer. Enjoy your weekend.” Callan gave Jill’s hand a squeeze.

She watched as John ran around the car to
open the door for Jill and put her suitcase in the trunk. He gave
her a kiss that made sure everyone knew he was glad his wife was
home. Callan absently hoped Clay would be half as excited to see
her.

On the drive home, she couldn’t stop
thinking about Arty and how violated she felt knowing he’d been
rifling through her office while she was gone.

She had nothing to hide, and would gladly
show the board anything they wanted to see in print or computer
files. However, the thought of Arty sitting in her chair, going
through her things was completely unacceptable. It made her livid
to think of him threatening to fire her.

Callan’s anger multiplied at a rapid rate.
She had no idea how she would keep a clamp on her roiling emotions.
Accelerating her car, she zipped through traffic, anxious to arrive
home. She hoped to have time to clear her thoughts before Clay
walked in the door.

Clay sat at a stop light waiting to turn
onto the main highway toward home when he saw Callan’s car streak
through traffic. As soon as his light turned green, he hoped to
catch up with her, but she drove way too fast, zooming in and out
of cars like a lunatic. It had snowed earlier in the day and a
light sheen of ice covered the road.

Convinced his wife had gone completely mad,
he’d never known her to drive recklessly. Fast, yes, but not
irresponsibly. He sent a prayer heavenward that she would get home
without causing an accident.

Just as he said “amen,” he watched her car
fishtail across both lanes of traffic. Clay saw cars brake and
slide, trying to avoid a collision with Callan’s out-of-control
vehicle. Afraid she was about to die or kill someone else, he
watched in terror as her car spun back to the right and slid on the
shoulder before she gained control and continued down the road,
seemingly oblivious to the danger she had caused.

Not even aware he’d been holding his breath,
Clay let it out as he clenched the steering wheel tighter, trying
to stop the trembling in his hands and the galloping of his
heart.

She could have just died.

She could have killed someone.

Clay had reached the end of his patience.
He’d put up with her changing moods, her frosty attitude, her
screaming, crying, and pouting. She’d left town without telling him
she planned to be gone until her cranky call from the airport. Now,
she drove like a woman possessed, trying to kill herself or get
someone else killed on the road.

He’d let her have her way far too long and
not said anything. Tonight, Callan would get an earful when he got
home. For once, she’d sit and take it.

Although he was generally a laid back and
easygoing kind of guy, once Clay lost his temper there was no
denying the fact. He didn’t think he’d ever been so angry in his
entire life.

What if she had killed herself with her
carelessness? Clay couldn’t even let those thoughts register. If he
did, he’d soften too much to confront Callan and finally say what
needed to be said.

When he parked in the driveway, he surmised
Callan was already in the house. From the tracks in the snow, she’d
pulled in her suitcase.

After slamming his pickup door shut, he
barreled into the house and for good measure, slammed the front
door as well. One of her picture-perfect doodads fell off a shelf
and hit the floor with a crash. Clay yanked off his coat and threw
it down as he charged into the kitchen looking for Callan.

He found her in the bedroom, unpacking her
suitcase and tossing things on the bed, muttering under her
breath.

Startled, she turned when Clay stomped into
the room. Despite the fact that his knees still felt wobbly and he
wanted to pull Callan into his arms and hold her to make sure she
was safe, he turned on the full force of his anger. He stopped just
inches away from her and pointed his still-shaking index finger in
her face.

“If I ever,” Clay hollered, his face turning
red from long-repressed anger, “and I mean ever, see you drive like
that again, I will personally cut your driver’s license into
shreds. Do you hear me?”

Shocked by his outburst, Callan slapped his
hand out of her face and took a step back. This was nothing like
the welcome home greeting she’d imagined. She’d scared herself half
to death when her car slid around on the highway and still seethed
over the whole Arty incident.

Callan needed Clay to take her side and give
her some encouragement. Obviously, that wouldn’t happen.

Indignant and already angry, she boiled
over.

“My hearing, along with my driving, is fine,
thank you,” she said so slowly and coldly, she hoped Clay
experienced frostbite.

When she started to walk past him, his hand
shot out and grabbed her upper arm. “Oh, no you don’t, Callan. You
aren’t going to walk away from me this time. You aren’t going to
yell, cry, pout, or do anything but listen to what I have to
say.”

“Let go of me.” Callan brushed at his hand.
The more she pushed, the more he tightened his grip. “Clay, let go!
You’re hurting me.”