Читать книгу Confessions - JoAnn Ross - Страница 8

Chapter One

Laura Swann Fletcher had never realized how long five minutes could be. Especially when you were holding your breath.

She scowled at the vial atop the cultured marble countertop, as if intimidation could speed up whatever mysterious chemical reactions were taking place inside it.

Heat lightning flashed outside the bathroom window, hinting of the storm to come. A distant taste of rain rode on the sultry air. Normally, summer storms in Arizona’s high country never bothered Laura.

But tonight was different. Tonight she felt as if the electricity had gotten into her blood, making her edgy.

“Dammit, hurry up,” she begged. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with. “Please, hurry up.”

She took a deep breath that should have calmed, but didn’t. “It’s only stress,” she insisted, as if saying the words could make them true.

Perhaps she should have taken Fredericka Palmer up on that offer of Valium. Only last week her longtime best friend had professed concern about her. If only Freddi knew the whole story.

“Dammit, get hold of yourself.” Laura hardly recognized the high, nervous voice. She pressed her palms against her rib cage and, taking several more deep breaths, willed herself to relax.

But her mind continued to churn restlessly, tossing up the myriad problems that had been plaguing her. Problems without end. Dilemmas without solutions. Nerves humming, Laura decided to see if one all-important call she’d been waiting for had come while she’d been out buying the home pregnancy kit.

The answering machine was downstairs, in the den. The red light was blinking, signaling four calls. She pushed the Rewind button. Then, Play.

Unbearably restless, she prowled the plank floor.

Beep. “Laura. It’s your father.” His recorded voice was as gruff as always, but she thought perhaps it was only her imagination. His next words confirmed that it wasn’t. “I heard a story today that damn well better not be true. If you’re there, pick up.”

There was a slight pause as he waited for her to do as instructed. As she always had. “Hell.” Another frustrated pause. “When I get back from Santa Fe, you and I are going to have a talk. Because you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, girl.”

So, he’d found out. Even as Laura reminded herself that she’d been going to tell him herself, painful memories, buried but never forgotten, snaked through her.

She looked down at her watch.

Two more minutes.

She continued to pace.

Beep. “Laura, it’s Alan. Thunderstorms kept us on the ground at National, now we’re stuck on the runway at O’Hare. We’re going to be late getting into Phoenix, then with the ninety-minute drive to Whiskey River, it’ll probably be past midnight before I get home. Don’t bother waiting up.”

It was not the first time her husband had been delayed while on a trip with Heather Martin, his ambitious and sexy chief of staff. Laura doubted it would be the last. The difference was, this time she honestly didn’t care.

Alan Fletcher was a rising political star, the brightest, most promising light in the Republican political firmament. Having won reelection to the U.S. Senate by a landslide, he was being touted as the party’s best hope to regain the White House.

Laura had never enjoyed living in Washington. She hated the artifice, the parties that were nothing but power plays, the emphasis on political prestige rather than character. The role of senate wife had been difficult enough. The idea of becoming First Lady gave her hives.

Beep. “Hi, Laura. It’s Mariah. Kill the fatted calf, the prodigal daughter is coming home! Do I have a lot to tell you! Guess it’ll have to wait until I show up on your doorstep, which should be around midnight, which I know is an ungodly hour, but I’m dying to share my news with my big sister. Love ya.”

Damn. Laura dragged a trembling hand through her auburn hair. Trust Mariah to choose this weekend to return to Whiskey River. Nothing like throwing a lit match into an already volatile situation.

Then again, Laura considered, if anyone could appreciate what she was about to do, it would be the woman who, like their glamorous mother, had been banished from the Swann family.

She looked at her watch again.

Only one more minute.

Beep. “Hi.” The deep, intimate voice sent a familiar heat surging through Laura.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Hell, the truth is, I’m worried about you, babe. I still wish you hadn’t insisted on doing this alone.

“Christ, Laurie—” she could picture him dragging his hands through his thick black hair “—I don’t remember you being so stubborn twenty years ago. If you had... Oh, hell. Forget I said that. One day at a time, right?”

“One day at a time,” Laura whispered.

It was the same thing she’d been saying for months. The problem was, she knew Clint Garvey would not wait any longer. The last few times they’d managed to be together, they’d wasted valuable time—time they could have spent making love—arguing.

Finally, last weekend, Clint had issued an ultimatum. She knew, with every fiber of her being, that if she didn’t keep her promise to leave her husband, she would lose the only man she’d ever loved.

She sighed as she looked down at her watch again.

Finally!

The indicator’s damning red Plus sign confirmed what she’d suspected all along. It hadn’t been stress that had caused her to feel so tired lately. And it hadn’t been flu that had brought about the occasional bouts of morning queasiness.

She was pregnant.

With her lover’s child.

Timing, Laura considered weakly, was indeed everything.

With her back against the wall, both literally and figuratively, she slid down to the tile floor, wrapped her arms around her bent legs and rested her forehead on her knees.

What on earth was she going to do? A fleeting dread shot through Laura. Her first thought was that Clint would think she’d been lying when she’d assured him that she could not get pregnant. But how could she have known otherwise? After having spent years trying to conceive?

When pollsters had informed her husband that a pregnant wife was worth from eight to fifteen points in the opinion polls, Alan had begun dragging her to infertility clinics all over the country. None of the increasingly esoteric, uncomfortable and horribly embarrassing treatments had worked.

Finally, last year, after her thirty-sixth birthday, Laura had given up the quest for a child. Alan, needless to say, had not been pleased. It was, after all, a great deal easier to campaign on a family values platform with a smiling wife and darling children by your side.

Alan. Laura groaned. Her husband was going to be absolutely furious. What if he attempted to pay her back for her infidelity by refusing to grant her a divorce? Worse yet, what if he decided to claim this child for his own?

“I won’t let that happen!”

Laura reminded herself that her husband’s most consistent personality trait was that everything Alan Fletcher said, everything he did, including marrying her, was geared solely toward enhancing his career. If he attempted such a ploy, she’d hold her own press conference and tell the entire world the truth.

Ronald Reagan had proven that a divorced man could get elected president. But would voters choose a candidate involved in a messy paternity battle? Laura didn’t think so.

“It’s going to be all right,” she assured herself. And her baby. “Granted, this complicates things. But Alan will see that a quick, quiet divorce is in his own best interests.”

Latching on to that optimistic thought, she pressed her hands against her still-flat stomach in an unconscious gesture of maternal protection.

Her churning mind gradually calmed as she began to view her unborn child—hers and Clint’s child—as a reward for all the pain they’d suffered.

There would still be problems. Problems with her autocratic father, with Alan, with the press. And there was no way this baby could ease her current troubles regarding the ranch.

But as she ran a bath in the ancient, lion-footed copper tub, for the first time in a very long while, Laura felt capable of sorting everything out. A heady, forgotten confidence flowed warmly through her veins. Dual feelings of joy and wonder bubbled up from some hidden wellspring deep inside her.

Sometimes miracles really did happen.

Laura was soaking in the perfumed water when the storm that had been threatening earlier arrived. The sharp staccato of rain sounded on the roof. Thunder rumbled. A bolt of lightning forked just outside the window.

Suddenly, a sound like a Klaxon blare echoed through the house.

“Dammit.” An irritating flaw in the security system was that the sensors on the windows couldn’t tell the difference between a storm rattling the glass or an intruder breaking in.

She rose from the water, wrapped a towel around herself and ran back downstairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints. After deactivating the blaring alarm, she placed a call to the sheriff’s office—which was automatically alerted each time the alarm went off—assuring the dispatcher it was a false alarm.

“Stupid thing,” she muttered, clutching the towel to her breasts as she glared at the computer control panel. Alan had been promising to change the system for months. After tonight, Laura vowed, she was just going to tear the damn thing out.

At the age of thirty-seven, Laura was determined to reclaim control of her life. Along with the house and the 20 thousand acres of prime Arizona ranch land her grandmother Ida Prescott had bequeathed her.

After years of unhappiness, she’d returned home to Whiskey River. Where she belonged. And where she had every intention of spending the rest of her life with the man who, for eight blissful hours, in what seemed another lifetime, had been her husband.

Laura returned back upstairs, traded her towel for a long seafoam silk nightgown, then climbed into the cedar log bed.

Knowing she’d never be able to fall asleep, she sat bolt upright and twisted her hands together atop the Sunshine and Shadows quilt she and Clint had unearthed in a quaint Shenandoah Valley antique shop during a clandestine, love-filled weekend. The same weekend their child had been conceived.

The storm stalled overhead, wrapping the house in its grip. Rain pounded against the windows. Thunder boomed like cannon fire; psychedelic flashes of lightning streaked across the sky. Wind wailed outside the bedroom window like a savage spirit.

It was going to be, Laura thought, a very long night.

Although she’d not considered it possible, Laura eventually fell asleep. She dreamed of Christmas, could actually smell the pungent scent of the pine tree taking up most of the living room. Beneath the tree were gaily wrapped presents. Enough toys to fill F.A.O. Scharwz spilled over the floor.

A fire blazed in the fireplace; fat white flakes drifted down like snowy feathers outside the window, creating a scene straight out of Currier and Ives.

Laura saw herself sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, Clint sitting beside her. A little boy with her husband’s jet hair and solemn blue eyes sat on her lap, listening intently as his father read aloud from Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales.

It was an idyllic scene, born of Laura’s most private yearnings. One she was loathe to leave. Which was why, when the sound of the bedroom door opening filtered into her consciousness, she fought waking up.

The bedroom lamp, operated by a wall switch beside the door flashed on. Still struggling to hold on to her dream, which was rapidly disappearing like morning mist over the tops of the tall ponderosa pines outside the ranch house, she mumbled an inarticulate complaint.

The dream faded from view. Laura reluctantly roused, blinking against the blinding light.

Her sleepy mind recognized the familiar face. As her lips curved in a groggy, puzzled smile, a sound like an early Fourth of July firecracker shattered the nighttime stillness.

Startled, and unaware she’d been shot, Laura pressed her hand against the searing heat at her breast. Crimson blood flowed over her naked flesh, staining her fingertips.

Still uncomprehending, she stared up at her attacker, tried to ask Why? but discovered she’d gone mute. A mist covered her eyes.

Silvery rain snakes streaked down the bedroom window. Her wounded heart continued to beat.

Pumping out precious blood.

Laura’s last conscious thought was regret that she hadn’t told Clint about their baby.

And then, as a second sharp retort filtered through the fog clouding her mind, Laura Swann Fletcher surrendered to the darkness.