The Long Road Home by H. D. Thomson Page B

looked good. The black turtleneck drew out the golden sheen of her skin and hair. And if it wasn’t for her limp, she still could compete with the best models out there.
    She gathered her belongings and walked out of the bathroom. In the doorway, she froze.
    John, bare-chested and a pair of jean shorts slung low over his hips, stood by the side of the bed. On the bed, Vivian lay propped up on one elbow, but at the sight of Clarisse, pulled the sheet over her naked breasts.
    “Sorry,” Clarisse mumbled inanely and clutched the clothes in her hands. Seeing them together like this hurt more than she could have ever imagined. And it shouldn’t. After all, no emotional tie bound John to her. Not anymore.
    John plowed his fingers into his hair, pulling the dark strands from his face. He caught and held her gaze. “It’s okay.” His hand slowly lowered to his side.
    In his gray eyes she could read that he was remembering last night. She glanced away, hugging her clothes to her chest. A sudden rush of embarrassment scalded her cheeks.
    “Excuse me,” Clarisse muttered and hurried across the room, thoroughly appalled with herself. She couldn’t remember blushing so much in the last five years as she had during this trip.
    As she closed the connecting door, something made her pause. In the chair in the corner of the room, a pillow and crumpled blanket rested. Maybe she hadn’t walked into as intimate a situation as she had imagined. And maybe their relationship wasn’t as perfect as Vivian would like Clarisse to think.
    “That’s what you’d like to believe.” She shook her head in disgust, stuffing her makeup bag and clothes into her suitcases and placing them by the door.
    She turned on the television, dropped into a chair, and blindly stared at the screen.
    After a while, John knocked and opened the door. “Are you ready?”
    She met his bland expression and matched it with one of her own. Even with Vivian in the other room he wouldn’t mention last night. Fine. Just fine. “Everything’s ready to go.”
    They paid for the room and stopped off at a nearby restaurant. Throughout breakfast, conversation was stilted and sparse. When they finally finished eating and loaded up the Explorer, she retreated into the back seat in relief.
    With the help of a map and Vivian’s instructions, John navigated through the streets, hitting one particularly rough road full of potholes. Across from Clarisse, a dress wrapped in clear plastic jiggled off its hook. Picking it up, she caught sight of the price tag. She eyed the black silk—or lack of it—and shook her head with a mixture of disgust and amusement. Vivian had managed to zero in on what was probably the most expensive outfit available. She hooked the garment up, but it fell back down.
    “Please don’t get it wrinkled.” Vivian appeared over the bucket seat. “I didn’t bring an iron.”
    “It keeps sliding off.”
    “Here, let me.” Vivian reached for the dress and hung it on the hook. When John hit a pothole and the garment stayed, she gave Clarisse an accusing look. “It’s fine now. Please don’t touch it again.”
    Clarisse’s jaw tensed. She opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut. She didn’t need an enemy in such close quarters.
    John turned onto the entrance ramp and entered the interstate. Clarisse sat back and stared at the passing scenery as John flipped on the radio and scanned through the static for a local station. Clarisse vaguely heard the weather announcer forecast a heat wave in the mid-west. She rose awkwardly into a semi-kneeling position and rummaged in the back between John’s photography equipment and their suitcases for another book, then sat back down. A light film of perspiration covered her neck and back. It seemed to be warming up fast for so early in the day.
    “John?” Clarisse slid a finger around the top of her turtleneck.
    “Mmm?” John met her gaze in the rear-view mirror.
    “Could you put the