Читать книгу Three For The Road - Shannon Waverly, Shannon Waverly - Страница 6

KEEP MOVING, DRUMMOND. Don’t think. Just pick up the carton and go!

Mary Elizabeth obeyed her own command, ignoring her fatigue and mounting anxiety, and carried the last of her bedroom things down the wide, elegantly turned stairs.

But at the open front door, a surge of sadness blindsided her and caused her to hesitate. Outside, at the top of the circular brick driveway, basking in the golden September sun, was what might appear to be an ordinary eighteen-foot motor home. To Mary Elizabeth, however, it was her future.

Behind her rose the dignified, twelve-room Georgian where she’d lived all her life—her past. Her very definite, no-coming-back past. Her throat tightened and her eyes threatened to well up again.

Fortunately, Mrs. Pidgin chose that moment to come lumbering down the hall from the kitchen. The poor woman was already upset enough and didn’t need to see Mary Elizabeth breaking down, too. She pulled in a fortifying breath and smiled before turning.

The short, sixty-year-old housekeeper was carrying two plastic grocery bags by their straining handles, their weight seeming to tip her blocky form side to side as she walked. Like a windup toy, Mary Elizabeth thought with painfully deep affection. She only hoped the woman didn’t end up like most of those toys, overbalanced and on her side.

“What’s all this?” she asked. They’d already packed the RV with more than enough food to get her through her trip from Maine to Florida.

“Just a little extra. You never know.”

Mary Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Mrs. Pidgin was fussing over her as if she were setting off on a months-long journey in a covered wagon instead of a three-day zip down the interstate.

“Thanks, Mrs. P. But I wish you’d stop worrying. I’m going to be fine.”

“Of course you will. Of course.”

They both looked at the foyer floor, unable to hold each other’s gaze, then hastily headed out to the motor home.

Inside the vehicle, Mary Elizabeth threaded her way through the kitchen, down the short passageway with the bathroom on one side and storage cupboards on the other, to the bedroom at the rear. With a grunt of relief, she dropped the box she was carrying onto one of the two twin beds—already overburdened with her belongings.

The motor home was a marvel of storage compartments, but in her haste she hadn’t packed as efficiently as she could have. She’d do that later, when she had more time. Right now she felt compelled to hurry. Charles had gone to the bank this morning, giving no indication he’d be returning to see her off, but Mary Elizabeth didn’t trust him anymore. She especially didn’t trust him to keep from speaking to Roger.

Although Charles abhorred the idea of her staying in town, pregnant and unmarried, he didn’t like her going away so abruptly, either. People were bound to wonder what had happened here to cause such unseemly behavior, he said. He also worried about her accidentally running into people they knew during her pregnancy. And what if she decided to return with the baby some day? His lack of control over the situation bothered him, and she knew he’d started thinking of telling Roger again. To Charles, marriage was still the best solution to the problem.

Mrs. Pidgin was fitting a package of six single-serving quiches in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator when Mary Elizabeth emerged from the bedroom.

“Here, let me help.” She dipped into the bag, pulled out a deli container of lobster salad and tossed it into the refrigerator.

Mrs. Pidgin closed the freezer. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that’ll make you change your mind.” It was a question, a last-ditch hope. She was the only person other than Charles who knew why Mary Elizabeth was leaving. She was the only person, period, who knew where she was going. Mary Elizabeth had told Charles Chicago, in case he decided to come looking for her, but she didn’t want to drop off the map entirely. She wanted someone here to know where she was if a family emergency arose.

“Change my mind? Afraid not, Mrs. P.”

The housekeeper’s face looked pained. “Well, I can’t really say as I blame you. Your father’s behavior this past week has been unforgivable.”

Mary Elizabeth worked at keeping her expression set. The past week had been difficult, that was for sure. Charles had found a reason to make each day hurtful and exhausting. He’d continued to harp on her pregnancy and denounce her choices, and always he wondered what people would say if they knew. The barbs that especially dug in, though, probably because she was already frightened and insecure, were the ones regarding her ability to survive on her own.

Charles accused her of having no real job skills or practical experience, and said the only reason she’d landed the curatorship at the local museum five years ago was that he had used his influence with the board. She’d never find another position like it, he said, just as she’d never find another man like Roger whom, coincidentally, Charles had also “provided” since he’d arranged their first date.

Mary Elizabeth didn’t know what she would have done without Mrs. Pidgin. The woman had always been an ally and a comfort, but never more so than this past week.

Mrs. Pidgin had accidentally overheard the tail end of the conversation between Mary Elizabeth and Charles in the library, the part about Eliza Drummond’s affair and Mary Elizabeth’s true parentage, and had followed Mary Elizabeth up to her room afterward. There a shattered Mary Elizabeth had broken down, letting the shock of Charles’s revelation give way to grief.

When she’d eventually brought her tears under control, she’d filled Mrs. Pidgin in on the rest of the conversation and the full scope of her dilemma. Mrs. Pidgin had been shaken when she learned of Mary Elizabeth’s pregnancy, but she’d controlled her reaction well, better than Mary Elizabeth had when she learned the housekeeper had known all along about Eliza’s illicit romance. Despite Charles’s order not to tell anyone, Eliza had confided in Mrs. Pidgin. Mary Elizabeth could understand why. In time of trouble, a more loyal and nonjudgmental friend couldn’t be found.

At present, that friend was folding the empty grocery bag with exaggerated care, distracted by her continuing worries.

“I just wish you weren’t taking the camper,” she said, frowning. “Such a big, difficult thing to drive.” She tucked the folded bag into a drawer crammed full of embroidered tea towels and cutwork napkins. “It would be a lot easier if you left it here and let my Alfred sell it for you. You could take a plane then, have a moving truck transport your things. That way you could relax, take more things with you, too.”

With a sigh, Mary Elizabeth reached into the second grocery bag. “I thought you understood, moving vans are expensive. So are plane tickets. Besides, I don’t need any more things.” She wasn’t sure of much these days, but she was certain that taking the RV was the right choice. Not only would it get her and her possessions to Sarasota economically, but it would also become her home once she got there.

Chloe, her old college roommate, lived in Sarasota, and when Mary Elizabeth made the decision to move away from the northeast, she’d immediately called Chloe. Her friend had said she knew of a trailer park a few miles from her house that might take her in. Mary Elizabeth hoped so. She didn’t want to impose on Chloe, who was a newlywed. Neither did she want to encumber herself with the expenses of an apartment until she was secure in a well-paying job, and that might be a while. In addition, things might not work out for her in the Sarasota area, and what better way to move on than to simply turn an ignition key?

With the groceries finally put away, she started for the door, eager to get the last of her belongings and be on her way.

“Stop a minute, will you please?” Mrs. Pidgin grasped Mary Elizabeth’s wrist. “I won’t keep you long, I promise.” The housekeeper tugged her gently toward the front of the RV. Mary Elizabeth took the driver’s seat, swiveling it to face the other.

“All right, so you’re going, then.”

Such a note of finality, Mary Elizabeth thought. She looked down at her clenched hands. A faint band of white skin, left by Roger’s engagement ring, was still discernible against her light tan. “Yes,” she said softly.

Mrs. Pidgin sighed. “You have to promise me you’ll be careful on the road. Florida is so far away, and you haven’t had that much experience driving or being on your own.”

It was useless to remind Mrs. Pidgin that she’d had her license for eleven years and never been in an accident. The woman worried as only a person could who’d never driven or traveled—irrationally.

Besides, there was a grain of truth to what Mrs. Pidgin said. Mary Elizabeth hadn’t traveled much. She’d bought the motor home a full year ago, but since then had taken only four weekend trips, all within New England.

“Please don’t worry. The trip takes only three days, four if I drive very slow, and it’s major highway all the way. What could possibly go wrong?”

The older woman stared deep into her eyes. “A lot,” she said, her voice grave.

“Don’t talk like that,” Mary Elizabeth chided mildly. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good. That’s good. The crime rate being what it is, you should be scared.” The housekeeper tipped to one side so she could slip her hand into the right pocket of her blue cotton housedress. “I have something I want to give you.” She pulled out a small plastic figure and set it on the dash.

“A St. Christopher?” Mary Elizabeth bit off a laugh.

“Ayeh.”

“But he was kicked off the saint roster almost thirty years ago.”

The woman’s look said she didn’t want to hear it. Mary Elizabeth closed her mouth and gave the icon, protector of travelers, a welcoming nod.

Mrs. Pidgin pulled a second item from her pocket, a square blue envelope. “I have something else.”

Mary Elizabeth gazed at the envelope. “What is it?”

“Something from your mother. She gave it to me before she died. She told me I was to give it to you only if Charles did something like he did this week and you found out he wasn’t your real father.”

Mary Elizabeth’s fine-boned jaw hardened. “What makes you think I want anything from her?”

“She was your mother, Mary Elizabeth, and no matter how upset you are with her now, you still love her. I know you do.” Mrs. Pidgin placed the envelope on Mary Elizabeth’s knee. “Here. It isn’t much, but it belongs with you now.”

Giving in to curiosity, Mary Elizabeth opened the envelope and pulled out a yellowed photograph. “Oh.” The sound she made was barely audible.

“Ayeh, that’s him, your real father. A handsome fella, wasn’t he. You have his eyes.”

Mary Elizabeth gazed at the man in the photo with a mixture of fascination and denial. He was slim, good-looking, young. A carpenter’s belt, heavy with tools, hung around his hips. Behind him rose the Drummond house with its sun room under construction.

Swallowing, she slipped the photograph into her open purse on the floor. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Wait. I have something else.” Mrs. Pidgin grunted as she tipped to the right, pushing her hand into her left pocket this time.

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes popped when she saw what the woman pulled out. “Where did you get such a thing?”

“Oh, it isn’t a real gun.”

Mary Elizabeth looked at her skeptically.

“Believe it or not, this is only a toy, a water pistol. My Alfred bought it for our grandson, but Judy wouldn’t allow him to keep it.”

“I can see why. It looks so real.” Mary Elizabeth gazed at the lethal-looking toy. She’d heard such things existed. She’d even read about them being used in robberies, but she’d never actually seen one before. “And you want me to...”

“Yes, take it. Here.” The housekeeper placed the water pistol in Mary Elizabeth’s lap. “I wish I had a real weapon to give you, but—” she shrugged “—this might work if you’re ever in a bind.”

Mary Elizabeth stifled the urge to laugh. She thought Mrs. Pidgin’s fear of traveling had put her over the edge, but she said a polite thank-you, anyway, and slipped the gun into her purse.

Mrs. Pidgin breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Now, another thing...” She dug into the pocket again. Mary Elizabeth was beginning to feel decidedly like a knight in a medieval tale, being given magical gifts before setting off on a quest.

“Here’s my cousin’s phone number in Orlando and my sister’s in Gainesville. If you ever need help, anything whatsoever...”

Mary Elizabeth nodded. “I’ll call. I promise I will.” She took the slip of paper and filed that in her bag, as well.

“You have enough money?”

“Yes, and my credit cards, too. Don’t worry.”

Mrs. Pidgin took Mary Elizabeth’s smooth, slender hands in her plump, work-reddened ones. “I have only one more thing to ask.” Her voice lowered. “If things don’t work out for you, you’ve got to promise me you won’t let pride prevent you from coming back.”

Mary Elizabeth turned her head and gazed out the windshield toward the perfectly sheared shrubs gracing the perfectly manicured lawn that surrounded Charles Drum-mond’s perfectly perfect house.

“I can’t promise that,” she replied hollowly.

“I know it hurts now but—”

“Hurts? Learning you aren’t who you always thought you were doesn’t ‘hurt.’ It’s more like having your entire world turned inside out.” Or maybe, she thought, like discovering that gravity doesn’t work anymore. Your footing is gone and you’re spinning away from everything that’s familiar, out of control, with nothing to hold you safe.

Turning, she saw that the housekeeper’s red-rimmed eyes had filled again.

“But such a big step.”

Mary Elizabeth pulled her hands away and placed them tentatively on the steering wheel. There was nothing tentative about her voice, however, when she said, “I have no choice. I have to go. There’s nothing left for me here. Charlie’s in London doing graduate work, and Susan has her own family to keep her busy. We were never close, anyway. All I have, really, is you.”

Mrs. Pidgin wiped her eyes and rasped a string of curses, all directed at Charles Drummond.

“Don’t be angry with him, Mrs. P. It couldn’t have been easy for him all these years, either. Every time he looked at me, he must’ve been reminded of my mother’s infidelity. Actually, he did more for me than anyone in his position was obligated to do.”

“Ayeh,” Mrs. Pidgin affirmed bitterly. “All those insulting lectures, all that criticism... and the restrictions he imposed! It’s a wonder you didn’t choke on all he did for you.”

Mary Elizabeth shook her head. “He was instilling values, Mrs. P. Punctuality, neatness, frugality. I have no complaints. Just the opposite. I led a privileged life here. Just look at the house where I was raised. I had the best clothes, went to the best schools....”

“Only because he was afraid. If he didn’t give you those things, same as he gave your sister and brother, people might wonder why he’d singled you out. And if there’s one thing your...Charles can’t abide, it’s having folks think anything’s wrong here. He’s the proudest fool I ever met.”

“You’re right. And that’s the reason—one of the reasons—I’m leaving. I don’t want him feeling shamed or unable to hold up his head in town just because I refuse to get married.”

“Just? There’s no ‘just’ about it.”

“Right again. Getting married is hardly a trivial step.” Mary Elizabeth smiled, trying to shift the conversation onto a more cheerful path. “Besides, it’s past time for me to leave the nest. I’m practically ancient, Mrs. P.” But the brightness slid from her voice when she said, “I need my independence. I want to finally be free.”

The two women fell quiet. Outside the motor home, birds chirped noisily in the maples that bordered the property. The foliage looked played out, even a little tired. The calendar might say it was still summer, but the sky was too blue, too dry and clear. Change was in the air.

Finally, the older woman said softly, “You’ll call me when you reach your friend’s, won’t you?”

“Of course. And you won’t tell Charles where I’ve really gone until I tell you it’s safe?”

“Ayeh.” Mrs. Pidgin gazed at her a long, worried moment. “Well, I can’t think of anything else, so maybe we should get on with your packing. Is there much more?”

“Only the rocker from my room and the cat.” Mary Elizabeth rose and the woman followed. But at the door of the RV, Mary Elizabeth turned. “Before I go, I’d like you to know...” She fidgeted self-consciously with the buttons on her jacket. “I mean, what I want to say is...” She swallowed, and then simply wrapped Mrs. Pidgin in a fierce hug. The woman patted her consolingly while tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

“I know. I love you, too, Mary Elizabeth.”

* * *

EVEN THE PHONE BOOTH brought a smile to Pete Mitchell’s eyes. You just didn’t see those things anymore, only the open half-shells that looked like something out of Star Trek and didn’t exactly encourage a guy to linger or say anything personal.

The glass bi-fold door closed with a familiar squeak-thump, recalling hot summer nights, cheap after-shave, and dialing Sue Ellen Carlisle’s number while friends serenaded him with cat calls and whistles from the drugstore corner.

Pete lifted the receiver, noted the rotary dial and got the urge to call everybody he knew. He called his office.

Outside the booth, morning sunshine glittered over the dewy, deep green lawn in front of the Rest E-Z Motel. Old Adirondack chairs, ignorant of the fact that they had become a hot new item in backyard furniture, dozed under a stand of maples and birches.

Pete lowered himself to the booth’s small metal bench as the call went through. He tried to cross his legs, rest his right ankle over his left knee, but his long limbs kept knocking into things.

He heard a click, and then, “Mitchell Construction.”

“Brad?” he said, surprised to hear his brother’s voice.

“Pete?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. How ya doin’, man?”

“Great. What are you doing answering the phone?”

“Oh, I thought I’d goof off, sit around and drink coffee. My boss is gone for ten days.”

Pete knew Brad was kidding, at least he hoped he did, but that didn’t stop his stomach from tightening. They were already two weeks behind on the McKenna house.

“Did the shipment of drywall come in?”

“Hey, you’re on vacation. You’re not supposed to be thinking about work. Remember?”

Pete sent a daddy longlegs flying off his boot with a flick of a finger. “So, did the drywall come in?”

His brother chuckled. “No. I just called, though—that’s what I’m doing here at the office—and it’s on its way. Should be here tomorrow.”

“Good. Get the men on it right away, as many as you can spare.”

“I will.” After a short pause Brad said, “So, did you get it?” His voice contained a smile.

As did Pete’s when he replied, “Get what?”

“The measles. Jeez Louise! You know what.”

Pete laughed. “Yeah, I got it.”

Brad whooped. “Oh, man! That’s great. So, tell me about it. Is she as sweet as the ad promised?”

“Sweeter. What a beauty, Brad. I even brought her into my motel room with me last night. Couldn’t get enough of looking at her.”

“Good price?”

“For a mint-condition ‘53 Triumph, the exact same model Brando rode in The Wild One? Yeah, it was a good price. Well, a little steep. The old man knew what he had. But she’s worth it.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Where are you now?”

“Still in New Hampshire, west side of Lake Winnipesukee, about forty miles south of where I bought the bike, although I must’ve put a hundred and forty on it yesterday up in the mountains.” He paused, his sharp builder’s eye sweeping the grounds.

“I wish you could see the motel I stayed in last night, Brad. Separate cabins, each about the size of a garden shed, painted this bright fifties aqua. It’s the genuine article, too, not some fake retro setup with an eye on the nostalgia buck. I’m calling from a phone booth outside the motel office ‘cause there aren’t any phones in the rooms.”

“And you’re having a good time?”

“The best.” He hadn’t taken a vacation like this in so long he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed being on the road, totally alone and freewheeling—how much he needed it. His construction business had thrived this past year, and he’d been working full-tilt all that time, unaware of the wear and tear on his body as well as his spirit. But already he felt better, and he’d been gone from home a mere two days.

“Only you, Pete. Only you.” Brad laughed. “So, are you still going to ride her home?”

“That’s the plan.” That had always been the plan. Pete had flown up from Tampa on a one-way ticket, with only a duffel bag and a certainty of his luck.

“What I’d like to know is,” Brad said, “what are you gonna do with one more antique motorcycle?”

“Love her, cherish her, till the road runs out for either one of us, what else?”

Brad chuckled. “That reminds me, somebody stopped by the apartment yesterday who maybe wishes you’d think about her in those terms.”

Pete was glad his brother couldn’t see his face. He suspected it had fallen to somewhere around his knees. “Sue Ellen?” he asked, trying not to hesitate. Hesitation might give his brother the impression he cared more than he did.

“Uh-huh.”

“What did she want?”

“Came by to hand-deliver her reply to our wedding invitation.”

“Cutting it close, wasn’t she?”

“Sure was. Jill had to call the country club last night with a final count.”

Pete swallowed. “So, is she coming?”

“Of course. She is Jill’s cousin, after all.”

Pete got to his feet and moved around the phone booth like an agitated tiger in a too-small cage. Two teenage girls, walking slowly in his direction and trying to pretend they weren’t checking him out, giggled.

Brad said, “I’m reluctant to give people advice, especially my older and so-much-wiser brother, but now that her divorce is finalized, this might be a good opportunity for you to explore the possibility of getting back with her. She’s a gorgeous lady, Pete, and if you ask me she’s still real interested in you.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“No? Then how come she’s been calling you three times a week? How come she’s been coming by the office?”

“She’s thinking of renovating her house, dummy.”

“A house that was built only six years ago? Come on, Pete, open your eyes.”

Brad was getting a real kick out of this. So were their sisters, Pam and Lindy. They saw it as the ultimate romance, Pete and Sue Ellen, high school sweethearts, getting back together after fifteen years of unfortunate separation.

Pete saw it as a good time to hit the road.

“Listen, kid, I’m not interested in getting back with Sue Ellen, and I don’t want any matchmaking going on at your wedding, hear?”

“Yeah, I hear.”

No, he didn’t. Pete could tell his brother was smirking.

“Look, just because you’re getting married doesn’t mean everybody around you should do the same. Hell, you’re getting as bad as your sisters.”

“It might not be a bad idea to start thinking about settling down, too, Pete. I think I saw a few gray hairs on your head the other day.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my gray hairs and I’ll thank you not to worry about them. Hell, I’m never going that route again. Once was enough for a lifetime. For several lifetimes.”

A few seconds of uneasy silence followed, then Brad said, “Not to change the subject, but when can I expect my best man to get home?” The reminder of Pete’s disastrous marriage had effectively killed the discussion. Pete felt his equanimity return.

“Do you need me sooner than Friday? Not this Friday. The one before the wedding, I mean.”

“Of course I need you. I’m getting as nervous as a turkey in November.”

Grinning, Pete picked at a small tear on the right knee of his jeans. “Well, hell, I’m hardly the guy to have around if what you’re looking for’s support. My advice would be to give up this deranged idea of marriage and come on the road with me.”

“You just haven’t met the right girl yet,” Brad replied righteously. “Wait till you do. You’ll be eating your words.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“And don’t you go sounding so sure of yourself. But to answer your question—no, I don’t need you. Just be here the day before the wedding. We have to pick up our tuxes and go to the rehearsal.”

“Sure enough. How’s the rest of the family holding up?”

“Good. Pam has decided to have the rehearsal dinner at her house.”

“That isn’t necessary. You know I offered to take everybody to The Sand Dollar.”

“You’ve done enough, Pete. Besides, she really wants to do this.”

“Well, in that case... Has Lindy’s husband made it into work this week?”

“So far.”

Pete sniffed. He didn’t like his brother-in-law a helluva lot. The guy had a serious drinking problem. But he was family, and so, when he said he needed a job, Pete gave him a job.

“How are Abby’s tonsils?”

“Pete, will you stop worrying about the family, already!”

Pete almost said he didn’t know how. He’d been at it too long. But that might come out sounding like a complaint, which it wasn’t, so he just shut up.

The two teenage girls were nearly abreast of the phone booth now, walking stiffly, eyes straight ahead. Pete slouched a little—enough to look disreputable, yet not so much that he’d slide off the bench—and sent them his sexiest half smile and a slow nod hello. Their eyes rounded and their faces turned red as thermometers about to pop. As soon as they’d passed, he sat up, laughing to himself.

“So,” Brad said, “what are you going to do with the rest of your vacation?”

Pete felt a warmth like new love melt over him. “I plan to hit the back roads, do my Jack Kerouac thing, look for America in the slow lane.”

“Man, do I envy you.”

“You should. I don’t have to shave or change my socks for the next nine days if I don’t feel like it.”

“Have fun, but do me a favor? Take a shower before crossing the town line, okay? I’m not sure even I could stand you that ripe.”

“I’ll think about it. Take care, Brad.”

“Hey, you will be here by Friday, right?”

“Yes, I’ll be there. Have I ever let you down?”

When Brad answered, his voice held more emotion than Pete had intended to elicit. “Never, big brother. Never.”

“So, okay.” Pete uncoiled from the seat. “Till then, hang tough. Jill is worth it.”

“I know.”

“I hope so.” Pete ran callused fingers over the heart-enclosed initials someone had scratched into the black paint of the phone. “Don’t let this get around, it’ll kill my image, but I’m the one with every reason to be envious.”

Brad was quiet awhile before mumbling, “Thanks, Pete.”

“For what? See you Friday.”

He hung up quickly, but continued to stand there staring at the phone. He’d added that remark about envying Brad merely to bolster his brother’s confidence and get him through the prewedding jitters. But just for a second...

In general, he was happy with his life. He liked his work, enjoyed his freedom, wasn’t looking for any more responsibility than he already had, certainly not the kind you got saddled with in marriage.

But just for a second he thought he’d felt something, like a faint pang of hunger, an intimation there could be more.

He gave his head a little shake. Well, of course he knew there could be more. He always had. That was why he’d asked Sue Ellen to marry him when they were just eighteen. As things turned out, she broke up with him before they quite made it down the aisle, but that didn’t alter his view of marriage or keep him from marrying Cindy Barstow half a year later.

Pete curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against the phone-booth wall. Cindy. The biggest mistake of his life, a classic case of marriage on the rebound. At twenty-one, though, he’d believed he was in love again.

Cindy was cute, sweet and affectionate, and she fell for Pete very hard, very fast. By their second date they were making love and she was saying, “I love you,” which was exactly what his shattered ego had needed then. Three months after that they were married.

Cindy had another endearing trait that had bolstered his self-image, a soft feminine helplessness that made him feel strong, protective and needed. Like a rescuing knight.

But it didn’t take long for her dependence on him to wear thin and for him to see how draining it was. He began to resent her. He wanted a partner, a helpmate, someone who could occasionally nurture him when he was down—not a little girl.

He soon discovered other things about her that were equally annoying. There were her constant small “tests” to prove he loved her—calls in the middle of the day, for instance, to ask him to leave work to pick up something at the market for her, usually when he was most involved in an important project. She also made unreasonable demands, like having him account for all his time. And then there was the way she said “I love you,” with that plaintive little question mark at the end, her way of asking him to reassure her he loved her, too. Constantly. On the phone, during dinner, in the middle of the night.

Only months into their marriage, he knew he’d made a mistake. Cindy was desperate for love, starving for it, and that scared the hell out of him. Although she claimed to love him, all he saw was her fierce need to be loved, a need that soon became a bottomless pit. No matter what he did to reassure her, her emotional needs remained unsated and insatiable.

How they’d lasted two years he’d never know, but finally there came a day he couldn’t take it anymore. The ante in Cindy’s games had risen to the point where, if he didn’t walk out, he felt sure that dark bottomless pit of her insecurity would swallow him up. In the end it almost did, but that was a time in his life he didn’t like to dwell on.

The only solace he derived from looking back on his marriage with Cindy lay in the fact that they’d never had a child. He’d wanted one, but not with her. Lord, not her. He couldn’t imagine a child growing up with that woman.

After that, Pete was pretty well soured on the idea of marriage. Oh, he’d had relationships with other women, some serious, most too casual even to remember. But marriage? No, never again.

Aside from being incurably gun-shy, he simply liked his freedom too much. Single, he could come and go as he pleased, see whom he wanted—or not. He could smoke smelly cigars, eat chili for breakfast, or drop a bundle on a bike that was forty years old. No one would be at home waiting to chew off his head.

So, why was he suddenly feeling twinges of envy for his brother? And why hadn’t he felt those twinges while Sue Ellen was still married? He didn’t want to marry anyone, even her. She might have been his first love, maybe even his best love, but, no, not even her. She’d hurt him too much when she broke up with him to marry that guy she’d met in college, and he still blamed her for the consequences, his marriage to Cindy.

Cindy. Sue Ellen. They were a mess from his past he’d just as soon forget. And that was exactly what he was going to do. Pete pushed away from the phone, opened the bi-fold door and stepped outside. He had nine days until the wedding, nine glorious, freewheeling days before he had to deal with Sue Ellen again and his interfering relatives. In the meantime—he smiled—it was time to get back on the road.

* * *

ALL THE WAY OUT OF TOWN Mary Elizabeth cried. Tears obscured her vision so badly that, turning a corner, she drove over the curb, nearly hitting a mailbox, and a block after that she ran a red light. By the time she reached the highway, the floor around her was littered with tissues, and the fluffy orange cat lying on the seat beside her was eyeing her with aloof disdain. But she couldn’t stop.

She was leaving behind everything she knew—her family, her friends, her job and hometown—and was going to a place that was totally unfamiliar. The climate, the architecture, the landscape, everything in Florida would be different.

But then, everything in Maine felt different now, too. Learning she wasn’t who she’d always thought she was had changed things. Charles wasn’t her father anymore. Susan and Charlie were only half sister, half brother. Aunt Julia wasn’t even her aunt. And her mother? Mary Elizabeth reached for another tissue from the box on the dash.

As had happened innumerable times that week, the moment when Charles had informed her of her true parentage replayed itself in her mind. Again she felt her initial shock, the confusion and numbing incredulity that had prevented his words from really registering for several minutes. It was sort of like watching the demolition of a high-rise building, she thought. Hearing the boom of the explosives, seeing the jolt through the structure—and then that strange moment when the building simply hangs in place, mortally wounded but still appearing sound, right before dropping story by story into a thundering cloud of devastation. That was how she felt every time she recalled the destruction of her world.

She wiped her eyes, but they filled again almost immediately. Oh, this had to stop. She couldn’t afford to dwell on her illegitimacy anymore or wallow in self-pity. Facing a solitary drive down the entire Eastern seaboard, she needed to be alert, defensive and tough, even though in all her life she’d never been any of those things. Growing up affluent in a quiet New England town, she’d never had to be.

But after several minutes of focusing on her trip, her sadness had been replaced by fear, fear of the journey, fear of the unknown. No, that wouldn’t do, either.

“How hard can it be, huh, Monet?” she asked the fat feline riding beside her. “People make this trip all the time—college kids on spring break, retired folks.” She blotted her eyes one last time and pocketed the tissue. “I have Triple A insurance, my route clearly mapped out, even the best campgrounds to stay in each night. I’ve got food, shelter, credit cards, everything I need. And,” she said with added emphasis, “it’s only three days.”

Morning sunshine warmed her left shoulder as she drove down the highway heading south. She relaxed into the warmth, flexing her stiff neck to one side and then the other. “Actually,” she said, addressing the cat again, “the drive isn’t hard at all. I-95 all the way until we reach Daytona. Just one long road. Amazing, isn’t it? Then at Daytona we’ll cut across Florida to a highway that runs down the gulf side of the state straight to Sarasota. The gentleman I talked to at Triple A told me that only New York and Washington might give us trouble, but if we avoid those cities during commuter hours, we’ll be okay. And once we reach Florida everything’s going to be more than okay. It’ll be great. I’ve got a job interview lined up already. My best friend’ll be there. The weather’ll be forever warm....”

The cat gave her a look that said he’d had enough bothersome conversation. He settled his chin on his paws, closed his yellow eyes and went to sleep.

Mary Elizabeth shrugged and turned on the radio, trying to find a classical station. When she had, she settled back.

But a few minutes later her mind had wandered again, away from the music to the countless school concerts Charles had sat through when she was a girl. He’d attended her plays and art exhibits, as well. But he’d usually grumbled beforehand, looked impatient during and been irritable after. At times she’d thought she was merely being overly sensitive, but now she knew better. Now a lot of Charles’s behavior made sense. So did his words. You’ve always been a burden, Mary Elizabeth. A burden. More than she’d ever suspected, apparently.

It must have been terribly difficult raising a child who was the taunting proof of his wife’s infidelity, a child he clearly didn’t want and had hoped Eliza would give up for adoption. And how maddening it must have been when that child, given every advantage, had continually failed to live up to the Drummond name.

Or maybe she had, she thought, but in his pain and resentment Charles had simply refused to acknowledge it.

Mary Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the wheel. She wished she’d seen things in that light when she was younger. Instead, she’d spent her youth trying to win his approval and love, trying, always trying, but growing increasingly certain that in some mysterious way she was inferior and deserved to be treated differently from her brother and sister.

Damn! It shouldn’t have been that way. Her mother should have told her about her illegitimacy instead of keeping it a secret. It would have explained so much. Besides, it was her very identity her mother had withheld. And what if there was some unpleasant surprise lurking in her gene pool such as heart disease or diabetes? It was only right a person be told such a thing, or at least be given the opportunity to find out. The likelihood of that happening now was slim. Mrs. Pidgin had told her that after her biological father left the area, her mother had never heard from him again. No one knew where he was or if he was even still alive.

Mary Elizabeth came to with a start, realizing she’d done it again. She’d fallen into thinking about Charles and her illegitimacy when her mind ought to be on the road. With a determined effort she put them from her thoughts, reached for the radio and turned up the volume.

She stopped at a roadside rest area south of Boston shortly after noon to feed Monet, who thought he was human and insisted on three meals a day. Although anxiety had destroyed Mary Elizabeth’s appetite, she knew that for the baby’s sake she ought to eat, as well.

While she was putting together a lobster salad sandwich, she realized her stomach was knotted with a curious new tension. Her hands trembled with a nervousness she couldn’t quite define.

She was opening a cupboard to look for her copper tea kettle when the thought abruptly hit her: survival. That’s what this nervousness was about—preparing her first solitary meal, in the first home that could truly be called her own. It didn’t matter that she’d prepared innumerable meals before. This one cut through time and all common sense to feelings that were obscure and primitive. The need to survive. The fear that she wouldn’t, just as Charles had predicted.

Conscious of her every move, she found the kettle, set it on the propane stove and turned the knob. Ridiculously, her heart leapt when a flame appeared.

She considered going out to a picnic table with her food, but an eighteen-wheeler was parked nearby, and while the driver was probably just having his lunch, too, she felt it was wiser to stay inside.

She sat instead at the small kitchen table and cranked open the window to catch the fresh September breeze. Gazing outside at her unfamiliar surroundings, her stomach suddenly clenched again. She was alone now, truly disconnected from everything she knew, and she felt alone, felt disconnected.

But there was simply no way she could have stayed in Deerfield. Feeling alone and disconnected wasn’t nearly as bad as having to deal with Charles. Or with Roger, she thought. In a town as small as Deerfield, Roger would have found out about her pregnancy sooner or later.

Mary Elizabeth picked up her sandwich and took a small, tasteless bite. Charles was right; Roger was a decent person, and although he and Mary Elizabeth didn’t love each other, he’d want to marry her. He’d think it was the right thing to do.

It wasn’t. She’d never been more certain about anything in her life. It wasn’t her own happiness she was considering, although she’d always assumed she’d marry a man she was in love with. It was the child’s welfare that concerned her. Roger would feel trapped in a situation he hadn’t planned and didn’t need or want.

Of course she wouldn’t have to marry him, despite her father’s considerable influence on both her and Roger. But even single, Roger was sure to resent the child. Maybe not at first. At first he might ask for visitation rights, maybe even insist on paying child support, but eventually he would feel he’d been dealt an unfair hand, especially when he met a woman he wanted to marry. He’d resent having to explain this embarrassment from the past, this bastard. He’d resent having to justify the drain on his time and his wallet. The child would become an issue between them. His wife might even be jealous and ask him to stop seeing the child altogether.

No, Mary Elizabeth didn’t want any baby she brought into the world to grow up like that, resented and unwanted by its father—the way she’d been raised.

She regretted not being able to tell Roger she was pregnant. Fathers had their rights, and what she was doing to him was morally wrong and probably legally wrong, as well. But whatever guilt she felt was dwarfed by her conviction she was doing the right thing for the baby. And in the end, would it really matter whether Roger knew or not? She planned to give the baby up for adoption, anyway.

Taking a sip of tea, she let her gaze wander the motor home, crammed full of her possessions. She’d brought along most of the necessities to start a new life, but she’d also brought some frills. The Steuben goblets she’d inherited from her grandmother, her Crabtree & Evelyn clothing sachets, nearly twenty years of needlework, even her Salem rocker. She knew personal, homey touches had little to do with survival, but she needed them, anyway. Her soul needed them.

Mary Elizabeth smiled softly, her sense of well-being returning. She might be alone now, detached from home and everyone she knew, but ultimately she’d be okay. She had this RV to comfort her and shelter her from all the wide-open unknowns beyond.

And she had a tiny life growing inside her, she thought, placing her hand on her stomach. As always, that realization intensified her resolve. She would reach Florida, she would make a new life for herself. And she would provide a happy future for the baby. There would be no more talk of abortion, no more pressure to marry a man she didn’t love, no more fear that that man would begrudge and mistreat his own child. The legacy of resentment stopped here.

She finished her lunch, washed her dishes and, with fresh determination and optimism, got back on the road.

Mary Elizabeth’s spirits remained buoyed through most of the afternoon, down the Massachusetts interstate, into Rhode Island and on through Connecticut. She played the radio, listened to a book on tape, and when she got tired of that, simply drifted along with her thoughts.

She pulled into another rest area just before New Rochelle. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper on the opposite side of the highway, commuters leaving New York for their homes in the suburbs. And while this side of the highway was relatively free-flowing, she knew she’d hit similarly clogged arteries once she reached the city and the lanes outbound south.

Instead, she parked the RV and passed the hectic rush hour over a leisurely dinner of quiche, salad and crisp bottled water with a twist of lemon. For dessert she had tea and a slice of Mrs. Pidgin’s spice cake.

Feeling replete, she took to the road again at dusk. With any luck she’d reach the recommended campground in New Jersey around seven-thirty. She smiled, struck by a childlike sense of anticipation.

Everything was going well. The tires were humming, she was humming, the cat had even awakened to keep her company again.

And then she reached the Bronx.

There, highway signs and exit ramps became so confusing that before she knew it she’d gotten off I-95 and entered a labyrinth of streets that seemed to have no way out. It was, by far, the most frightening terrain she’d ever seen, except on “NYPD Blue.” She drove in circles, went down blind alleys and sped past loitering, leather-clad gangs. Occasionally she thought of her St. Christopher riding solemnly along on the dash, but mostly her prayers just went up to anybody who’d listen. She wanted to find her way out, but more than that, she was terrified of breaking down. All along the dark, potholed streets, cars lay stripped of everything but their shells. She didn’t want to think about what had happened to their owners.

Eventually, and for no reason she could discern, she did find the highway again. But by then she was so weak from having adrenaline rushing through her system, she didn’t even care that she was heading in the wrong direction, back toward Connecticut. And when, a few miles later, she realized she wasn’t even on I-95, that didn’t matter, either. She was on a major highway, she was going somewhere, and that somewhere wasn’t New York City.

She took the first exit she came to that displayed the symbol for lodging. It was nearly nine o’clock.

She braked at the end of the exit ramp, peering first to her right, then to her left, wondering which direction to take on the dark two-lane road. Wondering, too, why there weren’t any signs. The billboard on the highway had promised a luxury motel three miles east off the exit, but which way was east? She was so tired she didn’t know up from down anymore.

She slumped over the wheel, dropping her forehead to her knuckles. She didn’t need this. For the last half hour, the only thing keeping her going was the thought of bringing this cumbersome vehicle to a stop and crawling into bed.

Ah, well, she sighed, sitting up. It was only three miles. If she chose the wrong direction, how long could it take to turn around and backtrack? She flexed her shoulders, did a quick eenie-meenie, and went left.

The road was dark and narrow and arched with trees. She passed a cottage set back from the road, a small restaurant and several acres of corn field. After that there was nothing but woods.

She glanced at her odometer several times, and when she was satisfied she’d covered more than the requisite distance without finding the motel—or any other signs of civilization, for that matter—she decided to turn around.

Almost too tired to see anymore, she swung the camper across the road, her headlights cutting a white tunnel into the trees. She shifted and carefully backed up, red brake lights casting an eerie glow over the roadside brush at the rear.

Given the length of her vehicle and the narrowness of the road, however, Mary Elizabeth was forced to go through the maneuver again, cutting across and backing up. Still, the turn wasn’t complete, and she wished she’d waited until she’d come upon a driveway or crossroad.

This time would do it, though, she was certain. Forward. Back. Back a bit more...

Without any warning, the rear end of the motor home dropped with a thud. Mary Elizabeth’s teeth banged together, while somewhere in the nether regions boxes tumbled. “Oh, God!” she whispered as the engine stalled.

With fingers that quivered, she turned the ignition key and pressed her foot to the gas pedal. But even as she was doing so she knew she was wasting her time. The back tires spun futilely, kicking up dirt and pebbles that hit nearby tree trunks like buckshot. The RV didn’t budge. Panic flooded her as she gripped the wheel. Her blood pounded. What was she to do now?

After turning off the engine, she found a flashlight and slipped outside to investigate. Just as she’d suspected, she’d backed the RV right into a roadside ditch. She clutched the top of her head as if it might blow off. How could she be so stupid?

Okay, don’t panic. This isn’t a problem, she assured herself. You’ve got AAA, and they come to the rescue anywhere, any time. Right? Right. All you have to do is find a phone.

She peered up the road one way and down the other. All black. Just cricket chirps and bullfrog noises mixed with the thick, woodsy smell of humus. This was definitely not her idea of New York. Or was she back in Connecticut? Well, it wasn’t her idea of Connecticut, either.

She climbed into the motor home again, brushed her hair, put on lipstick, found her purse, stepped outside, locked the door and, with a shuddery sigh, pocketed the keys.

The solution was easy, she told herself. She’d simply walk back the way she’d come and phone for a tow truck from the restaurant she’d passed just off the exit.

But when she stared down the dark empty road and remembered she’d be on it for more than three miles, her heart grew faint. She reminded herself that every journey, no matter how daunting, begins with a single step. She pulled in a breath and set off.

When she finally reached the restaurant, her legs were ready to give out. But what was worse, now that she’d gotten a good look, she realized it wasn’t the sort of establishment she’d ever walked into before. It wasn’t the sort she ever wanted to walk into, either.

It was low and dark and seedy-looking. The gravel lot surrounding it teemed with pickup trucks and motorcycles glinting lurid neon color from the beer signs flashing in its windows. Over the door a string of multicolored Christmas lights outlined a peeling sign left over from happier or more hopeful days. Starlight Lounge it read. The I was dotted with a star.

Mary Elizabeth looked across the road to the lone cottage huddled beneath a dense grove of pines, pines that made an almost human sighing, and her mind filled with visions straight out of a Stephen King novel.

She glanced from the cottage to the restaurant and back to the cottage again, feeling truly caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. She decided on the restaurant. At least it was a public building.

As soon as she opened the door she was hit with a wall of country music and cigarette smoke. The next moment she realized she’d made a serious mistake.