Читать книгу If Wishes Were Horses - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

DURING DINNER, Pat gave Mike a replay of every moment of her first day at camp.

Mike thought she seemed happier than he had ever seen her. Her face was flushed...

He reached across the table and laid the back of his hand against her forehead.

“Oh, Daddy,” Pat snapped. “I don’t have any fever.”

“You’ve got a lot of color in your cheeks.”

“The sun does that.” Pat snorted. “Get a grip. I feel great!” She told him for the third time how she’d trotted that pony all by herself. A couple of times she nearly slipped and told him the truth—about how she stayed behind so that Liz could help her work through her fear. She managed to catch herself in time.

She was used to giving her father a heavily edited version of her activities. She knew he’d have a cat fit if he ever caught on to some of the things she did when he wasn’t around, and Mrs. H. had promised not to snitch on her. It wasn’t lying exactly. She didn’t want Mike to worry—well, not any more than he did, at any rate.

Maybe when he saw how much fun she was having he’d loosen up a little. She checked to see how he was taking all this. He had a goofy grin on his face. She got up to kiss his cheek.

And she kept up the chatter. Mike found he was listening with a tinge of jealousy. Pat was the only person left in his life who loved him. God knew he loved her. And now she seemed to be developing a crush on Liz Matthews. All his colleagues had warned him that sooner or later Pat would grow up and begin to move away from him.

Strange. He’d never rebelled against his parents. He’d felt no more for them than they had for him. They saw him as a certificate of deposit—tend it properly and the dividends would be worth the expense.

Well, he’d paid off handsomely by presenting them with a large trust fund that would make their years of retirement from the faculty at Berkeley more than comfortable. And then he’d walked out of their lives.

That was almost twenty years ago. He doubted they noticed that he no longer called or came to see them. His father would still be writing stuffy papers about the state of the economy for academic journals, and his mother would be so engrossed in her mathematical formulae that she’d forget dinner.

When they’d sent him to prep school at age twelve, he’d never had a moment’s homesickness. Probably because he’d never felt at home with them. Even as a small boy, he’d often wondered whether he should introduce himself to his parents at breakfast. They never seemed to know quite who he was or what he was doing in their cloistered lives.

Wiping her hands on a linen towel, Mrs. Hannaford came in from the kitchen. “Enough. Time for bed, young lady.”

“No. It’s too early.” Pat’s statement was flat. “Did I tell you...”

“Tomorrow comes early.”

“I’m too keyed up to sleep. I’ll just lie there and toss and turn until daylight.”

“So look at the ceiling and think about tomorrow,” Mike said. “Mrs. H. is right. Take your bath and go to bed. Now.”

“Daddy, I’ve had one bath this evening. I do not intend to take another, thank you very much.”

“Point taken. So brush your teeth and things.”

Pat stalked off toward her bedroom with her head high. She could usually get around her father except when it came to her health. Bedtimes were not negotiable. At the door she paused and turned to say dramatically, “I can hardly wait to get to college and away from here. I plan to drink, smoke pot and date the entire football team.”

“You do and I’ll lock you up in a dungeon until you’re ninety,” Mike answered.

“I’m already locked in a dungeon.” She slammed the door behind her.

“Just like you.” Mrs. Hannaford’s voice was gruff with affection.

“I drink very little, I don’t smoke pot or anything else, and I have never ever dated anybody’s football team.”

“You might consider dating the girls’ volleyball team.”

Mike laughed. “They’re about six years older than Pat. Besides, at my age all that sex would kill me.”

Mrs. Hannaford gave him a cool appraisal. “I doubt that. You going out tonight?”

“No, I’m going to bed. Rachelle is at some real-estate dinner thing.”

“Oh, really.”

At the housekeeper’s tone, Mike raised his head from the back of his chair. “I don’t know why you dislike Rachelle. She’s beautiful, has a great career of her own so she’s not after me for my money—her alimony has left her a wealthy woman—and she and Pat are even civil to each other most of the time. In one year Pat will be thirteen. She needs a mother to—oh, teach her how to shave her legs.”

“I have already taught her that.”

“You have?” Surprised, Mike pulled himself out of the chair and walked over to Mrs. Hannaford.

“Mrs. Hannaford, I don’t know what we’d do without you. Promise me that even if I do marry again, you’ll always be with us.”

She turned away and casually flicked her linen towel at an imaginary dust mote on the polished glass dining-room table. “A new wife will want to do things her way.”

“Not negotiable. You’re family.”

“And who says I’d want to stay under those circumstances? I could always get another job.” She began to polish harder, making tight little whorls on the glass.

Mike felt a jolt. Melba Hannaford had only been with them for a little over two years, but from the beginning he’d never thought of her as an employee. She’d seen too much of their lives, been too much a part of the bad times. He cleared his throat and moved to the window. His hands worked at his sides. When he spoke, his voice sounded colder than it had before. “No doubt you could. You are extremely competent.”

“That nonsense won’t work with me,” she said. “I know you too well. But sooner or later Pat is not going to need either of us, you know.”

“That won’t happen for years.” He felt much more relief than he would admit. “And I don’t plan to marry anyone until I am absolutely positive that it will be the right thing for all of us.”

“I would never presume to tell you who to many,” she said. “But you should not remain celibate for the rest of your life.”

“Who says I’m celibate? And how would you know?” He smiled as he turned and saw the color rise in her cheeks.

“I did not say chaste, Mr. Whitten. Look up celibate in the dictionary. It merely means unmarried, whatever you young people think. All I’m saying is that once Pat goes off to college and starts making a life for herself, you are going to find yourself very much alone.”

He walked over to the cabinet in the corner and pulled a bottle of light beer out of the small refrigerator. He leaned against the closed door, popped the top and took a deep swig. “The wrong woman would be a hell of a lot worse for Pat than celibacy.”

“So find the right one. For both of you.” Mrs. Hannaford sat on the black leather chair and propped her feet in their shining white tennis shoes on the glass-topped coffee table. “Oh, that feels good.”

Mike sat across from her and propped his Top-Siders on the other side. “You don’t think Rachelle is the right one?”

“You’re the one who’s got to live with her if you marry her.”

“True enough.” He took another long swig of his beer, then dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Pat’s exuberance wore him out.

“Hmmph.” Mrs. Hannaford pulled herself to her feet and stalked off to the kitchen.

“One more thing,” Mrs. Hannaford spoke from the kitchen doorway. “What on earth did you do to that blue suit you were wearing?”

Mike laughed. “You do not want to know.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Hannaford slammed the door behind her.

All his women seemed to be slamming doors on him tonight.

Mike was alone with his thoughts. He tried to conjure up Rachelle’s elegant face. Instead, he found himself staring at a vision of Liz Matthews, dirty face, freckles, wild hair and all. He blinked and sat up.

She was the last woman in the world for him. She was so different from Sandi. He turned so that he could see the vibrant portrait above the fireplace. The woman whose eyes met his was darkly sleek, almost fiercely beautiful. Even in a big blow on Puget Sound in their sailboat, she’d always managed to stay neat. Until that final afternoon. He sighed and closed his eyes against that terrible image.

Every woman he’d ever dated since Sandi’s death had possessed that same elegance.

So why should Liz Matthews with her crooked nose and her grubby jeans attract him? She was so damned sure of herself, so career oriented. She crashed into his life like a freight train.

He set the empty beer bottle down on the coffee table as the realization hit him. Damn. All those qualities were exactly like Sandi. She’d spend all weekend designing one of her fancy Puget Sound houses and forget to eat or sleep. She dragged him to art galleries and theater and ballet and the opera—and taught him to love all of it. She’d exploded his miserable life like a rotten melon.

Four years out of Yale he’d been bored with making money, fed up with the ruthless negotiation and cliffhanger days when ten minutes might make the difference between a million lost and a million won. He’d needed something—or someone—new in his life.

He remembered the night he first saw her. He’d been alone, as usual, propping up the wall of the office reception room while a cocktail party raged around him, waiting until he could go home without seeming too rude.

She wore a loose red silk dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen outside of a topless bar. She stood out like a peony among all those navy and gray suits. Her long black hair was pulled back tight in a heavy bun on the back of her head. She caught him gaping at her, worked her way through the crowd until she was close enough to lay her hand on his arm. She said, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He stammered, “I do now.”

He took her to bed two hours later, and six weeks later they were married. She was two years older than he, but that made no difference. They had six years of happiness. He bought her a forty-six-foot sailing sloop. Her career as an architect took off. He regained his pleasure in the money game. They seemed to live in a golden glow where everything they attempted turned out perfectly.

It had ended in four hours on a rainy Friday afternoon. She’d gone into premature labor, had an emergency C-section and burst a blood vessel in her brain that killed her twenty minutes later and left him with a two-pound baby daughter that he never intended to see.

He’d felt only rage. Rage at himself for giving in to her and getting her pregnant, rage at the child who had killed her, at Sandi for leaving him with this tiny little thing on his hands, at the doctors, the hospital, heaven itself.

He sailed their sloop out into the Sound so that he could open the sea cocks, sink the boat and join his wife.

He’d never doubted that it was Sandi who stopped him as he reached for the first plug. He turned the boat around, sailed back to the dock and drove at once to the hospital. He stood outside the neonatal intensive care unit looking at his blue-black stick figure of a daughter as she fought for her life. She was the ugliest small animal he’d ever seen.

As he stood staring in at his child, Sandi gave him her final gift. She filled his heart with love for this child for whom she had died. He sat down with his back against the wall and howled so loudly that two interns tried to sedate him.

He’d had his one great love. He couldn’t expect another. In the years since, he’d only sought to find a friend, a colleague, an ally to share his life and help raise Pat. Most marriages had considerably less going for them than friendship and collaboration.

Liz Matthews wasn’t his ally or colleague, and she didn’t act as though she’d ever consider him a friend. Yet she stirred his blood. He felt a tremor of disloyalty to Sandi, then he seemed to hear Sandi’s laughter. She never let him get away with nonsense like that.

Suddenly he had to get out of the apartment, drive. somewhere, anywhere. He told Mrs. Hannaford he’d be back in an hour or so and escaped from the apartment as though he were being chased by the devil himself.

“TRAVELLER’S MY PONY,” Pat screamed and started up the ladder to the hayloft.

“Get down from there,” Liz said. “I don’t feel up to climbing today.”

“I won’t.”

Liz sighed and began to follow, groaning at every step.

Halfway up the ladder, Pat stopped and glared over her shoulder at Liz. “You really hurt?”

“I am stiff and sore, thank you.”

Pat said nothing for a moment, then she started down. “Get out of the way.”

Liz stepped off the ladder and stood waiting in the aisle with her hands on her hips. “Come into the lounge so we can discuss this properly.”

Pat slouched ahead of her, dropped onto the leather couch, crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

“Did we or did we not have an agreement about tantrums?”

“You gave that stuck-up Janey my Traveller. How could you?” Pat wailed.

Liz blew out her breath and sank gingerly into one of the chairs. “Janey is an experienced rider. I’m too big to work Iggy, and Vic doesn’t ride. Every step Janey takes on that pony teaches him.”

“But I want to ride him now.”

“Forget it.”

Pat set her jaw and glowered. Liz did not react.

After a moment Pat sighed and said, “Okay. But only if I can stay late for an extra lesson every day this week.”

“God, you drive a hard bargain. Anything for a peaceful life.” Liz pulled herself to her feet. “So go get Wishbone tacked up and get yourself into that arena.” She walked out.

Pat uttered a deeply put-upon sigh and heaved herself off the sofa just as Vic stuck her head in the door.

“You’re in my class today,” Vic said. “I warn you, I don’t put up with bad manners. One fit and you’re out.”

“Everybody’s always trying to throw me out.”

“No, we’re trying to keep you in. You just make it darned difficult for us.” She put her arm across Pat’s shoulders. “Listen, you’ve got the makings of a good rider.”

Pat shook off the arm. “How come you don’t ride? You’re scared, right?”

Vic caught her breath. “Boy, you go for the jugular, don’t you? Okay,” Vic continued. “I used to think I stopped riding because I was scared for myself. That’s not it. I’m terrified that somebody else will do something stupid and will get hurt because I’m not good enough to get out of the way. I can’t take that chance again.”

“That’s silly.”

“You asked. I told you. Now get Wishbone ready. We’re ten minutes late.”

PAT’S LESSON WENT smoothly enough. She did everything Vic asked of her including trying to post at the trot. Toward the end she seemed to click into the rhythm. She did have the makings of a rider.

Janey, meanwhile, handled Traveller beautifully. At the rate she was taking him, he’d be jumping small fences in a week.

At four o’clock Liz found herself hanging around inside the barn waiting for Mike Whitten to pick up Pat. When the silver Volvo pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later she felt her heart lurch. It sank as a plump lady climbed out of the driver’s side.

“Hey, I’m Melba Hannaford come for Pat.” She presented a note from Mike.

“Oh? Where’s Mr. Whitten?”

“Had to go out of town for a couple of days.”

Pat saw Mrs. Hannaford, and after a moment’s hesitation, took her on the same tour of the barn she’d dragged her father on.

She wasn’t so lucky at dragging out her visit, however. “No. I’ve got to stop by the store and get dinner in the oven,” Mrs. Hannaford said. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

Pat stormed off to the car, climbed in and slammed the door. Through the windshield, Liz, Vic and Mrs. Hannaford could see her staring bullets at them.

“I hope he’ll be back in time for the barbecue and sleepover Friday night,” Vic said.

“Sleepover?”

“The parents are all coming for dinner, then the kids will stay over in sleeping bags on the lounge floor.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think Mr. Whitten would allow that. Pat has never slept over at anybody’s house.”

“Time she started, then,” Vic said.

Mrs. Hannaford smiled. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him. Oh, can he bring a date?”

“Sure,” Liz said. Her voice sounded like a croak. “Now, I’ve got to go work out my jumper before my next lesson shows up. Nice to have met you.”

Of course Mike Whitten would bring a date. He must have dozens of women—beautiful, fashionable, clean women. Why did it bother her so badly? She turned to find Vic at her elbow and asked, “What’s this about a barbecue? We can’t afford it.”

“We can’t afford not to. Albert and I have everything arranged.”

“I should have guessed.”

“This is a family barn, Liz. Time we started treating it that way again. Show Whitten what a marvelous atmosphere it is for kids.”

“He’ll never let her eat barbecue in the open. He probably prefers pheasant under glass—suitably disinfected, of course.” Liz stomped off with Trusty’s halter in her hand.

Vic raised her eyebrows at Albert, who was straightening the wash rack and surreptitiously watching Liz. He nodded and grinned. “Uh-huh. Thought so.”