Читать книгу The Marriage Agreement - Christine Rimmer - Страница 10

Marsh’s instinctive reaction was to follow her.

But he held instinct in check. She clearly wanted out of that room—and away from him.

Who was he to try to hold her there?

He went back to the bar and poured himself another drink—a double that time. He sipped it slowly, thinking that he should probably get over to the hospital. He should check on his father one more time tonight, as he’d planned to do.

But no. He felt a little too edgy for a visit with the old man right now. What had just happened had been too unsettling.

Tory had acted so strangely.

If she hadn’t wanted to see him, couldn’t she have just said so, on the phone, right up front?

Why even agree to meet him? Why come up to his room with him? Why put herself through that? It didn’t make any damn sense.

Marsh shook his head, sipped from his drink, decided that the remark about calling him tomorrow must have been something she’d said without thinking, without meaning it. She wouldn’t be calling him. He’d never hear from her again.

Which was probably for the best.

He certainly wouldn’t be idiot enough to try calling her again.

The past truly was another country, one he had no business trying to revisit. They were two different people now, with nothing to connect them except memories that were better left to fade, finally, into nothing.

Marsh finished his drink. Then he called the hospital. He spoke to the night nurse assigned to his father’s care. Blake Bravo was sleeping peacefully, the nurse said.

“If he asks, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.”

The nurse said she’d be happy to pass on his message.

The misty drizzle had stopped by the time Tory got home. Betsy said she had checked on Kim fifteen minutes ago and Kim was sound asleep.

Tory paid Betsy and walked with her out the front door. The night air was moist and warm and the wind had died down. Tory stood on her front walk, watching Betsy stroll away up the street. The girl turned and gave Tory a carefree wave before she disappeared into her own house.

Betsy was fifteen. The same age Tory had been when Marsh first asked her out…

Tory shook her head. Better not get started down memory lane again. She turned and went back up the curving walk to the house. Inside, she locked up and turned off the lights.

She looked in on Kim before she went to her own room, creeping in and then waiting in the dark by Kim’s bed, until her eyes adjusted. Kim lay on her side, facing the wall, the yellow comforter she had chosen herself, when the two of them redecorated her room just last fall, pulled up close around her chin.

Mother love welled up in Tory. So sweet. And yet painful, too. A child grew so fast. Nine years took forever—and went by in an instant.

When Tory’s parents had learned that their daughter was going to have a baby, they had first tried to convince her to give the baby up. Tory had refused. And eventually her parents accepted the inevitable. In the end Audra and Seth Winningham had been honestly supportive, helping to take care of Kimmy in the first years, so that Tory could finish high school and even earn a business degree at OU.

And Norman, after all, was the third largest city in Oklahoma, a progressive university town with a population nearing ninety thousand now. Tory’s single-mom status may have been looked at askance by the people in her nice upper-middle class neighborhood at first. But over time she had found acceptance.

It had been rough, yes, in the beginning, being a mom at seventeen. All her high school friends felt sorry for her. They were out, running around, having fun. And she was home with a baby, longing, hungering, praying for Marsh to come back to her.

Kimmy stirred, sighing, pushing down the covers and flopping one arm out behind her. Tory resisted the urge to cover her again. The room wasn’t cold. And covering her might wake her.

Quietly Tory turned and tiptoed out.

Tomorrow, she thought, as she crossed the hall to her own room. I will call Marsh tomorrow, in the evening. I’ll make arrangements to meet with him again. And I’ll do a better job of it this time. This time I won’t run out without telling him what both he and Kimmy need for him to know.

“You get together with the redhead?”

Blake was sitting up in bed, looking considerably better than he had the afternoon before. The oxygen tube was gone from his nose. Though the old man still wheezed with each breath, Marsh was beginning to think that maybe the heart surgeon had been right. Blake Bravo wasn’t quite ready for the grave, after all.

“Well, Mr. Big Shot? Did you see her or not?”

“Feeling better, huh, Dad?”

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“No. I’m not.”

“You didn’t see her.”

Marsh said nothing.

“Wait a minute,” Blake wheezed. “I get it. You saw her. But she held out on you. You didn’t get your surprise.”

“Dad.”

“What?”

“Either drop it or explain yourself.”

“Where the hell’s the fun in that? I’ll give you a hint—no. On second thought, I won’t. Go see her again.”

To keep himself from saying something he would later regret, Marsh stepped over to the window and looked out. Today the sky was a broad expanse of clear blue, dotted here and there with small, cotton-like clouds. Spread out below was a parking lot. And near the building, attractive landscaping: nandinas, a redbud tree, flower beds mulched with cedar chips.

He waited, looking out, observing the progress of a big black Buick as it rolled between the rows of parked cars and finally nosed into an empty space. A man got out and strode toward the building.

Marsh turned to his father again. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

Blake grunted. “Doctor said this morning that they’ll be sending me home soon—as long as I make sure there’s someone there to look after me.”

“I’ll see about hiring you a live-in nurse.”

“Forget that. I don’t want any stranger in my house.”

Marsh looked at his father levelly. “Don’t get any ideas about me taking care of you. It wouldn’t work.”

Blake closed his eyes, wheezed a sigh. “Don’t worry. I know it. You and I wouldn’t last twenty-four hours under the same roof.” He looked at Marsh again, pale eyes stranger than ever—far away. And far too knowing. “Doesn’t matter. Let it go. We’ll see how right that doctor is….”

Marsh shook his head. “You do feel better. You look better.”

“I don’t want a damn funeral, you hear what I say? Who the hell would come to my funeral anyway? I want cremation, and I want you to dump my ashes in Lake Thunderbird. Got that?”

“You’re not going to die now, Dad. Your doctor said so.”

“What the hell does a doctor know? What do you know? You’re dense as a post, you know that, Mr. Big Shot? You haven’t even figured out the secret that little redhead’s keeping from you.”

Marsh turned back to the window.

“Go see her again,” Blake commanded.

Marsh studied the redbud tree below. He’d always liked redbuds, liked the twisted forms the trunks could take and the pretty heart shape of the leaves.

Marsh stayed in his father’s room for another hour. It was a true test of self-control, and Marsh was pleased to find himself passing it. His father jeered and goaded, and Marsh looked out the window. Somehow the time went by.

Finally Blake dropped off to sleep again. Marsh sat in the chair in the corner and watched him for a while, listened to the labored, watery sound of his breathing, wondered what he was going to do about home care now that it looked as if Blake was going to cheat the devil, after all—at least for a while.

Marsh also wondered at himself. That he had come here, in the first place. That he found he felt accountable for the care of a hardhearted SOB who had made his childhood a living hell and driven his mother to an early grave. Evidently, some bonds were nigh on impossible to completely sever. A man felt a responsibility to a parent, period, even if that parent had always been a damn poor excuse for a human being.

When he got tired of sitting, Marsh left the hospital room. He hung around in the waiting area for a while, got out his cell phone and called Chicago.

He spoke with his second in command at Boulevard Limousine. Nothing going on there, other than the usual—drivers who didn’t report in when they were supposed to, one breakdown on a trip in from O’Hare. But somehow they always found another driver to cover, and breakdowns, with the fleet of top-quality new vehicles he owned now, were few and far between. This most recent one had caused a delay, but only a short one. They’d immediately dispatched a replacement vehicle, and the problem car had been towed to the shop.

It occurred to him that he wasn’t really even needed anymore at the company he had created. He’d put together a system that worked and now it could pretty much run without him. Soon it would be time to focus his energy on expanding. Or maybe to get into something else altogether.

He went back to Blake’s room, where lunch was being served. He sat in the chair and watched his father pick at his meal, tuning out the gibes and taunts, pleased to find that he was getting pretty good at not listening to things he didn’t need to hear.

As a child and a badly troubled teenager, he used to practice tuning out the old man. He never got a chance to get very good at it back then, though. At that time Blake hadn’t been confined to a bed. And if Marsh tried not listening to his harangues, Blake had no compunction about using whatever was handy—his fists, his belt, a baseball bat—to get his rebellious son’s undivided attention.

By one Marsh was ready for lunch himself. He considered giving the cafeteria a try, but then decided he’d just as soon get out of the hospital for a while. He drove down Porter, crossing Gray and Main and continuing on toward the university. He found a certain landmark restaurant he remembered, a place that was a little dark inside, but really nice out on the patio under the clusters of red-white-and-blue Cinzano umbrellas.

The lunch rush seemed to be winding down, so he didn’t have much difficulty getting a table to himself. The waitress settled him beneath an umbrella with an iced tea, a basket of chips and a menu. He crunched on the chips and considered his choices, thinking that later in the afternoon he’d start looking for that live-in nurse his father would be needing.

He glanced up from the menu to signal the waitress—and saw that he was being watched. By some character a few tables away, a guy with a broad, ruddy face and a salesman’s smile.

The character squinted. “Marsh? Marsh Bravo?”

Suddenly the face was familiar. Take away forty pounds and add long hair and—“Bob Avery.”

Bob nodded at the three other men at his table. “Be right back.” He got up and strode toward Marsh. “I don’t believe it.”

Marsh stood. “It’s been a long time.” They shook hands. “You’re looking good.”

Bob laughed. “I’m lookin’ fat. But you. Hey. Doing all right, huh?”

“Getting by.”

“What did you get into?”

Marsh told him. “What about you?”

“What do you think? Insurance.”

“Like your dad.”

“That’s right. I went in with him. Got my name on the door, two assistants and four clerks. He’ll be retiring in a few years, then I’ll be on my own.”

“Sounds good.”

“It’s a living—and I married Steffie.” Marsh remembered. Bob and Stefanie Sommers had been an item Marsh’s senior year.

Marsh asked the next logical question. “Kids?”

“Two. A boy and a girl.”

“What do you know? A lot can happen in ten years.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Bob was looking at him a little oddly now, it seemed to Marsh. “So,” he said, and coughed into his hand. “You married?”

“No. Still single.”

“Well. Ah. Have you stopped in to see Tory?” Something wasn’t right, something in Bob’s expression, in the hesitant, probing sound of his voice.

Marsh said in a flat tone, “I saw her briefly, last night.”

Bob’s rather small eyes got larger and his face got redder. “You did. Well. Great. That’s, uh, some little girl you got there.”

Marsh frowned. What was Bob getting at? Tory was far from little, and Marsh didn’t “have” her. Bob’s remark made no sense. “What was that?”

Bob gulped. Marsh watched his Adam’s apple bounce up and then slide down. He glanced at his watch. “Wow. Look at the time. Gotta go. It has been great seein’ you again. You take care of yourself, now.”

“Sure,” said Marsh, still wondering what the hell was going on. “You, too. My best to Steffie.”

Bob hurried back to his own table, but only paused there long enough to grab his check and announce, a little too loudly, that he had to get back to the office.

Marsh sank to his chair again. The waitress came by. He ordered and he ate. He was back at the hospital by a little after two, stopping in at the nurses’ desk to ask for a few referrals for home care. Then he went to his father’s room.

Blake started right in on him, razzing him about Tory, about the damn “surprise” she was supposedly keeping from him. And now, after the way Bob Avery had behaved, Marsh was beginning to wonder if there could be more to this thing about Tory than a mean old man’s crazy head games.

“You go on,” said Blake for about the fifteenth time that day. “Talk to her again. And this time don’t let her get away from you until she tells you the damn truth.”

About then, Marsh could easily have grabbed the old man around his scrawny throat and squeezed until the wolfish eyes popped right out of their sockets, until Blake gave in and blurted out the big secret, whatever the hell the big secret was.

But somehow he restrained himself. Mostly because he knew that strangling his father would get him nowhere. Blake would die with that ugly knowing grin on his wrinkled face.

Marsh said, “You know, Dad. You’re right. I’m going to see her. Now.”

“You be sure to tell her I said hi.”

He drove to her flower shop, figuring she’d have to be there at that time of day. It wasn’t difficult at all to find. He thought it looked charming, the windows sparkling clean, the displays attractive and eye-catching. He almost parked and went in.

But he didn’t. By then he’d had a little time to reconsider, time to think some more about the way she’d run out on him last night. After that, he doubted she’d be too thrilled to see him if he dared to drop in on her at her workplace.

Better to wait, now he thought about it. Wait until she closed the shop for the day. Call her at home, as he’d done last night.

How early could he call and reach her?

Well, how late did the shop stay open? He could see the hours printed on the door. But he couldn’t quite make them out from the street. And he didn’t dare get any closer. She might look out and see him.

Hell. This was ridiculous. He felt like a damn stalker—probably because he was behaving like one.

He drove on by the shop, turned left at the next intersection and then right on Main. Before long he was passing the statue of the Union soldier again. And this time, when he got to the street that would take him by Tory’s house, he swung the wheel to the right and turned into her neighborhood.

The streets near her house looked much the same as they had ten years ago: solid, comfortable homes, mostly of brick, lots of oaks and sweet gum trees and twisted evergreen yaupon hollies. Some of the mailboxes were out at the street, clematis vines thick with star-shaped purple flowers twining over them.

There were children, a number of them, strolling along on either side of the street, wearing backpacks and swinging lunch boxes, probably just getting out of the elementary school a few blocks away. They looked happy, those kids. Contented with the world and with their place in it. No doubt they had the kind of life he’d always envied when he was growing up. They were going home to the nice brick houses, where they’d do their homework, have their friends over, sit down to dinner at six—dinner cooked by a trim, pretty mom who smiled a lot and didn’t have to work her fingers to the bone just to make it from one day to the next.

He spotted it: Tory’s house. A block and a half ahead, on the corner, with that big sweep of lawn front and side. He used to cut that lawn, and the lawn of the house next door to it—Mrs. Pickett’s house—during those summers he worked for that gardening service. He’d cut a lot of lawns in this neighborhood, in those two summers, his sixteenth and seventeenth year.

He remembered he’d been running a lawnmower on Tory’s lawn the first time he ever laid eyes on her. She’d come out of the front door—fourteen, she must have been then, wearing shorts that showed off her pretty legs, that red hair pulled back with one of those scrunchy things. He’d almost run that mower right into the big oak in the corner of the lot.

That fall, he’d spotted her at school for the first time: a freshman. It had taken him until the following summer before he could drum up the nerve to ask her out.

Marsh drove very slowly—too slowly, probably. In this kind of neighborhood, where people kept their cars in their roomy garages and no one had the bad taste to hang out on the street, a lone man cruising a little too slowly could easily cause suspicion.

Again he felt slightly reprehensible, an intruder in the life of a woman he no longer really knew. Still, he didn’t speed up as he approached. He slowed even further, taking in all the details, noting small changes. Flowers grew close to the house now, instead of low juniper bushes in a bed of white river rock. And the big door with the beveled glass in the top of it, once white, had been painted a deep green.

A group of children—four girls dressed in jeans and bright-colored T-shirts—were passing Tory’s front walk just as Marsh turned her corner to drive by the front of the house. One of them, slim and dark-haired, wearing bright purple tennis shoes with thick white soles, waved at the others and started up the walk.

Marsh’s mouth went dry.

He slammed his foot on the brake, stopped the car, right there, in the middle of the street, not caring in the least that the other three girls had turned to stare at him. He had eyes only for the slim one in the purple tennis shoes—the one who strolled straight up the walk to the dark-green door and let herself inside.