Banish Misfortune (30 page)

She turned to Marianne with a sigh. "I don't know. The most I can get out of him is that he'll be here a month or two. I can't imagine what sort of job would allow him to take summers off."

"You can't?" Marianne's look of determined cheerfulness was replaced with real amazement. "You mean to tell me you don't know what he does for a living?"

She looked up from her son's smiling face. "No, I don't. Do you?"

"Of course."

"How?"

Marianne shook her head. "I asked, dummy. You two must have had some torrid affair, not even taking time to find out what he did for a living."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Marianne countered.

"Well, what does he do for a living?"

Marianne contemplated her for a moment. "I think I'll let him tell you."

"Marianne..." Jessica's voice held a warning, one Marianne blithely ignored.

"No, Jessica. You ask him; he'll tell you. I'll leave it at that."

"He's probably a member of the Mafia," she said grumpily, her tone of voice at variance with the smile on her face as she bent down toward her son.

"Ask him. We had a nice talk while you were getting dressed, and I promise you, he won't bite."

"He won't bite you, maybe. Me, I'm not so sure

about. How did he manage to win you over so quickly? I thought you were impervious to the male of the species."

"Maybe Cameron addled my brain," she said glumly. "I like him, Jessica. I really do. And if you gave him half a chance I think..." Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Jessica's expression.

Her ice-blue eyes were trained on the figure down by the lake with absentminded concentration, and there was a curiously vulnerable look on her face, one that was embarrassingly easy for her friend to read.

"Oh," said Marianne, nonplussed.

"Oh, what?" Jessica tore her eyes away from Springer's lean form.

"I hadn't realized that you were in love with him."

It was close to the last straw. "Don't hand me that crap, Marianne. I'm not in love with anyone, and particularly not Springer MacDowell. If I were going to fall in love I'd pick someone far more... more..." Words failed her.

Marianne nodded. "You're in love with him, all right. You just don't even realize it yourself yet."

"Since when did you become the great expert on affairs of the heart? If I need Dear Abby, I'll write to her. You're right, Andrew must have addled your brains." Her nervous tapping of her feet communicated itself to Matthew, who screwed up his face with a look of intense displeasure.

"I suppose so. Speaking of addled brains, I suppose it would be ridiculous to ask a favor of you," Marianne said disconsolately, putting her empty coffee mug down on the gray-painted porch floorboards.

"Don't you be ridiculous," Jessica said warmly. "Just because your brain's melted doesn't mean I don't love you. Name it."

"I was going to ask you to watch the kids for a few hours, but I hadn't realized you had company."

"Oh, bless you, Marianne. At this point you could rent your kids to me. I need something to keep Springer at a distance. I'm not in the mood for a cross-examination of my history, which he seems determined to do. I was going to try to keep Matthew from taking a nap, but Eric and Shannon will do the trick perfectly. He can hardly ask me about my sex life with Eric listening."

"Is he going to?" Marianne asked, fascinated.

"He has already, and I didn't give him much of an answer. Nor do I intend to. I think he's here to make sure I'm a decent mother for his son."

"And if he decides you're not?" Marianne's broad, pretty face reflected her own tangled situation.

"I won't even consider the possibility." Jessica had to resist the urge to pull Matthew up into her arms. She gave her head a tiny shake. "So, speaking of addled brains, what are you planning to do this afternoon?"

"Go berrying."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. He'll never notice. It was just bad luck that he came across us last year. I'm not going to give up the best raspberries in years because I'm afraid of Andrew Cameron."

"You don't think he'll be glad to have you plundering his bushes?"

"Not after last night. We had a parting of the ways."

"That was fast." Jessica couldn't control the look of disappointment that shadowed her face. "Don't you think you could have—"

"Do you want advice on your love life, Jessica?" Marianne countered in a dangerous voice. "I have all sorts of opinions on Springer and you."

"No, thank you," she said promptly, only partly subdued. "So if your ways are parted, how come you're going over there to steal his raspberries? Aren't you afraid he'll catch you?"

"I don't think he's going to be anywhere around. And if he does happen to see me, I expect he'll go out of his way to avoid me. Don't look for Freudian motives, Jessica. If I wanted to see him, I'd go over and see him. I wouldn't use raspberries for an excuse. I don't want to see him. I always knew getting involved with him would be a mistake, and I was proved right."

"All right, all right. I won't hassle you anymore. Just answer me one question, will you?"

"You're almost as nosy as I am," Marianne complained to the blue of the lake.

"Just what did Andrew do that was so hideously unforgivable?"

Marianne met her gaze calmly. "He asked me to marry him."

Jessica nodded. "Of course. Inexcusable in a man who loves you. I understand why you don't want to see him again."

"Stay out of it, Jessica."

"Yes, ma'am. Have fun berrying. We'll expect you when we see you."

Marianne relented. "I'll bring you enough for some raspberry shortcake."

"Made with white sugar," Jessica said with a pleased sigh. "Be careful in the woods. Watch out for marauding Scots."

Marianne's moue of disdain was her only reply as she ran back down the front steps. Jessica watched her stop long enough to say good-bye to her children on her headlong dash to the old Toyota. There was a sudden spring to her step, certainly not inspired by the thought of scrambling through the berry bushes, and Jessica found herself smiling ruefully. What a mess the two of them were.

And she turned her blue eyes down to the lake, to watch Springer. He'd taken his shirt off in the heat of the day, and the sun slid along his tanned back with a caressing hand. Jessica swallowed.

"Time for a walk, Matthew my love," she said briskly, rising from the porch and averting her eyes. "Shannon, Eric," she called. "Stop fighting and come for a walk with us."

"Can we go down to the lake, Jessica?" Eric asked eagerly as he scrambled up the steps, his sister trailing behind him.

"No!" she said, her voice strangled. "No," she repeated in a calmer voice, even managing a smile. "We'll go back toward the woods and see if we can see the baby foxes. We'll go swimming later."

"Okay," Eric agreed. "Do you think Mama might bring Andrew back with her?"

"I don't know. Do you want her to?"

He nodded. "Shannon and I like Andrew. We want him to stay with us."

"I think he'd like that, too. But it's going to be up to your mother." Jessica's voice was doubtful, and Eric shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess. But she doesn't have very good taste in men, does she?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she married my dad, didn't she?"

There was no tactful answer to that simple question. "Let's go for our walk, guys. I'm afraid that we're going to have to let your mother sort out her own life."

Cameron's raspberries
were incredibly good this year, Marianne thought as she popped another one into her mouth. Despite Jessica's knowing look, Marianne knew she had no ulterior motives in trekking out here. She had come only for the raspberries.

Of course, the raspberries didn't care that she'd stopped to brush out her tangled mane of chestnut hair, or pinched her cheeks to put some color into them, or opened the loose cotton shirt an extra button. And by the time her earthenware bowl was half full, Marianne didn't care much, either. The thorny branches had tangled her hair, scratched her hands and torn her clothes. But it was a beautiful day, with the lazy hum of the bees that were fighting for the raspberries, and the taste of the fruit was seductively sweet in her mouth; for a while she forgot about Andrew Cameron and that gnawing longing that had taken to sitting in the pit of her stomach.

"Woman," his rich Scottish voice filled her ears when she had almost given up hoping, "you have the most incredible gall. First you seduce and abandon me, and then you pilfer my raspberries again. Is there no end to the depths of your depravity?"

She turned, and it was an effort to keep a distant look on her face. "I figured once I had my wicked way with you I could get away with it. That's the only reason I slept with you, you know. To get at your raspberries."

He was very close, and there was a wary light in his green eyes, a hesitant curve to his mouth. He was wearing a loose cotton peasant shirt over his brown corduroys, and moccasins. He looked brown and lean and a little like a woodland elf, and for a moment all Marianne could do was stare at him, her heart in her eyes.

Leaning forward, he kissed her lightly on her parted lips. "You taste of raspberries," he whispered, his voice just a trace louder than the hum of the bees around them.

"They're very good this year," she murmured dazedly.

"Are they? Let me try them again." And his mouth caught hers in a deep, searching kiss, his tongue dipping, tasting, searching out any lingering trace of the fresh, sweet berries in her warm, moist mouth. Dropping her bowl to the ground, she lifted her hands to his shoulders to steady herself, and she was lost. Her fingers slid inside the loose shirt to his warm, smooth skin, and they were sinking to the ground, mouths hungry, touching, tasting, hands eager, fumbling, caressing.

Her hair spilled out around her on the ground as she lay back, her bare skin tickled by the rough grass beneath her. She felt like an ancient Druid priestess, naked and fertile, surrounded by the trees and the woodlands, with the man beside her a priest and a forest spirit, with his eyes the color of the leaves, his golden skin the color of wheat and honey. And then they were one together, with the trees and the sky around them, the lazy buzzing of the bees a distant song that carried them along on the soft summer breeze, with the smell of the crushed raspberries all around them. It was earth and sky, sea and fire, heaven and a sweetly aching sort of hell, and when it was over Marianne lay back in the grass beneath him and fought back the tears that she hadn't wept in years.

It was a long time before she could speak. "If I get stung by one of those bees," she said in a muffled voice, "I'm going to have a hell of a hard time explaining."

"They won't sting you," He moved away from her then, reluctantly, and began gathering the clothes that lay scattered on the ground around them. "And you'll have a harder time explaining the stains in your hair and on your back." He leaned over and picked up a silky lock of hair with a small, caressing gesture. "I've never made love to a woman lying on raspberries before. It's quite an experience."

At that she sat up quickly. "Oh, no," she wailed. The raspberries were scattered on the ground about them, crushed by their recent activity, and the earthenware bowl was shattered.

"Forget the raspberries, Marianne," he said with an urgency that held a rough note. "Why exactly did you come here today?"

Reaching for her shirt, she pulled it around her, shaking her long mane of hair. "That's why I came here," she said stubbornly. "For the raspberries."

"And I can just be thankful that you're in a wanton mood and I'm the one who happened along?" he questioned carefully. "And maybe Buddy LaPlante would have done just a well?"

"Don't!" It felt like sacrilege, and her brown eyes were open and beseeching as they looked up into his surprisingly stern ones. "You know that's not true. Don't spoil it, Andrew. It was—" she drew a shaky breath "—very beautiful."

"But you came here for the raspberries."

"Damn it, no. I came for you," she admitted it angrily. "There, does that make you feel any better?"

He was watching her, his head tilted to one side, and she wanted to reach out and pull that curly brown-haired head back to hers, to taste his mouth again. But he was still looking at her with that dour, Scottish expression of mistrust. "I'm not sure," he said slowly. "Does that mean you've reconsidered my offer?"

"I can't marry you, Andrew."

"You mean won't," he said calmly, apparently unmoved by her refusal.

"Couldn't we just—" her voice was very small "—agree to disagree?"

He laughed then, a sad laugh, but not without humor. "My lioness is sounding very lamblike all of a sudden. I thought you told me you'd had enough pleasant physical exercise?"

She tried a weak smile. "A woman's got to keep fit."

"I'm sorry, lass. I can't do it.'"

"Can't do what?" It came out as a mournful wail, but Marianne was past worrying about her dignity.

"Can't be your aerobics instructor." The strong, tanned hand that reached out to gently stroke the side of her face should have taken some of the pain away, but it somehow only made it hurt that much more. "I won't have an affair with you, Marianne. I won't bed you with your two little ones in the next room watching their damned game shows. I won't lie abed with you on a Saturday morning and have the kids tiptoe around. I won't do that to them."

"Cameron, they wouldn't mind. They love you."