Banish Misfortune (31 page)

"But I would mind for them. I'm a traditional man, Marianne. I want to marry the woman I love, I want to help take care of her and her children, I want a reason to belong. A legal reason, a commitment, and I can't settle for less."

She was very still. "You never said you loved me before."

He smiled, a wry, self-deprecating little smile. "Didn't I? Well, you never seemed very conducive to the idea. But I do love you, completely, and it's because of that that I can't settle for an occasional roll in the hay."

"You could live with us," she suggested mournfully. "And we could see how it went."

He shook his head. "I can't do that either, lass. I need you to make that leap of faith for me. For us not to be together would be a terrible waste of the heart and body. But for us to live together without that faith would be a waste of the soul. And I won't do that to either of us."

She stared at him for a long time. "Then I guess we're at a standstill."

"I guess we are," he said, with his endearing smile.

"But don't grieve too much, woman. Standstills have a way of moving. I told you before, I'm a patient man. We'll work it out sooner or later."

"You mean you think I'll come over to your way of thinking and abandon my principles?"

"That's my viper. We'll work it out, lass. In the meantime I'd better help you gather some more raspberries. Fair warning, though—I still expect my tithe of preserves."

She managed a smile. "I would have thought I'd just paid you for your raspberries," she said in a dulcet tone.

"And I figured I just put you even more in my debt. Get up, woman. Time's a-wasting." He reached down and pulled her up, and for a moment she swayed against him, her knees weak.

It was a dangerous moment, and his arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer against him for a brief, tantalizing moment. And then she was released, not without obvious regret on his part.

"None of that, wench," he said. "This is going to be hard enough as it is. Don't tempt me with your wiles."

She smiled at him then, suddenly lighthearted. "I'm a patient woman, laddie," she purred. "We'll see what happens."

He gave her a doubtful glance. "God give me strength," he murmured devoutly. "Raspberries, amazon."

She grinned. "Raspberries, shorty," she agreed.

"You're good with children." The remark came out of the blue, made grudgingly, and Jessica couldn't control the involuntary look of disbelief she cast at Springer.

It was a warm evening. Matthew was dozing peacefully in his seat, Eric and Shannon sat cross-legged on the floor with Jessica, busy building a card house of Frank Lloyd Wright complexity. They were aided in that endeavor by the cracks in the old pine floorboards, just wide enough to hold a card upright. Springer was stretched out on the window seat, the soft summer breeze from outside ruffling his silky black hair. Jessica had thought his attention equally divided between his sleeping son and the paperback novel in his hand. Matt Decker—volume ninety-six—she'd noticed. One of hers.

"What did you say?"

Springer set the book down beside him, looking at her clearly out of those dark dark eyes of his. "I said you're good with children. You have a real feel for them."

A self-mocking smile twisted Jessica's mouth. "Ever the little mother, I am," she said lightly. "I've had lots of practice."

"Were your sisters older or younger than you were?" He was very careful to make the question casual, as if he weren't really interested.

"I had a younger sister and an older sister. And two parents. All of whom needed to be brought up, and I got elected to the job of doing it." She placed two cards at a careful angle and got an admiring glance from the diligent Eric. "That's the way it usually works out in alcoholic families. Every child has an alloted role. There's the rebel, the scapegoat and the little mother."

He dropped all pretense of reading. "It might have done you some good if you'd rebelled."

"That was Sunny's role." She added another card, all her concentration on the structure in front of her. "Maren was the scapegoat, always causing trouble and diverting attention from the real problem in the family. And I kept trying to hold everything together."

"Is that why you tried to kill yourself? Because you couldn't hold them together?"

The card house collapsed in a flurry. "I'll tell you what, why don't you work on the card house while I put Matthew down?" she said briskly, ignoring his last question. "You're bound to have more luck than I have. Would you like that, Shannon? Springer's very good at card houses."

She rose with one fluid motion and advanced on the drowsy baby. "Wretch," he murmured as she passed him.

Her hands were shaking as she settled Matthew on his stomach and drew the light cotton blanket over him. Wouldn't you know, she thought cynically. Tonight of all nights he'd go right to sleep. There was no reason she could delay her return to the living room and to Springer MacDowell's inimical gaze.

But luck, her recent enemy, had chosen to be kind. Marianne had arrived, looking tangled, sunburned and a little shell-shocked, with Andrew in tow. He had Eric hanging over his shoulder, Shannon in his lap, while his fierce eyes were fixed on Springer's lanky form.

"There you are, lassie," he rumbled, a wary look on his narrow face. "I've been meeting your man."

"He's not my man, Andrew," she said with more calm than she felt. "He's just an old—" for a moment her eyes met Springer's expectant ones "—an old friend."

Springer was looking both annoyed and amused at the angry Scottish terrier snapping at his ankles. "And who might you be when you're not defending the flower of womanhood?"

"Andrew Cameron," he shot back, still suspicious. "Have you come to make an honest woman of her?"

"Andrew!" Jessica gasped.

Springer's smile grew cooler. "Not really. But then, I was never given the chance in the first place, was I, Jessica?" His look was a direct challenge, one she wished she could avoid.

But she wasn't a coward, when all was said and done. "No, you weren't," she admitted, and was rewarded by Marianne's and Andrew's looks of shocked disapproval.

"You mean you didn't tell him you were expecting Matthew?" Marianne questioned finally.

"Look, do we need to go into all this right now?" she returned, riled up. "This is neither the time nor the place." She cast a pointed glance at the children, who were paying no attention to anyone but Andrew anyway. She sighed. "No, I didn't tell him. I didn't want to, I didn't think it was any of his business, and I don't think it's any of yours whether I did or not. I'm getting a drink. Do any of you want anything?"

"I'll come with you," Marianne said suddenly. "You want Scotch, Andrew?"

"What else?" he grumbled, still keeping a wary eye on the giant who had invaded Jessica's house.

The small pantry was dimly lit by the low-wattage light bulb overhead, and Jessica busied herself dragging out the various dusty bottles of liquor, hoping to avoid any more cross-examination.

"Do you still have that ancient bottle of Scotch Andrew brought over this spring?" Marianne questioned lightly.

"From Ye Auld Peat Bog Distillery? I do. No one else would drink it." She uncapped it, barely controlling a shudder as the strong fumes wafted through the enclosed space. She thrust it at Marianne. "You pour. I can't stand the smell of the stuff."

"Why not?" It was a simple question, sprung from idle curiosity, but it was all Jessica could do not to snap at her.

"I just don't," she managed calmly enough. "I must have gotten drunk on it when I was a kid. Have you got what you want?"

Marianne nodded. "Just a glass of wine. Are you coming?"

She took a deep breath, and the fumes of the Scotch seemed to press in around her. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Are you all right, Jessica? You look pale."

"Stress," she said with a forced laugh. "I'll be right out."

The swinging door closed behind Marianne's tall figure, and Jessica leaned on the counter, pressing her forehead against the cool glass in the cabinet doors. She could feel the trembling begin, and her fingers gripped the counter, her knuckles white with tension. When the door swung open behind her again she wouldn't, couldn't move. "Tell them I'll be right out, Marianne," she said in a choked voice.

She should have known. Broad, strong hands caught her shoulders from behind, pulling her unresisting body back against his. The fingers were kneading the knotted muscles beneath her yielding skin, and his voice was warm in her ear, stirring the cloud of wheat-blond hair. "What's going on, Jessie?"

It must have been the whisper. She could have sworn there was concern, caring, in that deep rumble of a voice. She could have closed her eyes and told herself he loved her, hated to see her in pain. And she could turn in his embrace, put her arms around his neck and hide her face against the soft, worn blue flannel shirt and tell him of her ghosts.

She clenched the countertop even tighter, her fingers cramping in pain, and she held herself stiffly. "I'm tired," she said in a low, noncommittal voice. "I didn't sleep well last night. I'll be fine once I get some sleep."

The smell of Scotch was clouding her brain, suffocat-ing her. Couldn't he smell it, smell the insidious stuff poisoning the air in the small pantry? Couldn't he know, couldn't he remember?

Slowly the hands released her, the body moved back. "Do you want me to fix you a drink? It would help you sleep. I think Marianne's getting ready to leave—it shouldn't be long now. Plenty of time for you to get a good night's sleep, little mother."

"Damn you, stop calling me that!" Her voice broke. She pushed her way through the swinging door before Springer could reply with one of his sarcastic cracks.

Marianne was already out on the porch, both of her children protesting sleepily at the sudden curtailment of their evening. Andrew had drained his Scotch in one swift gulp and was watching them get ready to leave, an enigmatic expression on his narrow face.

"I want to ride with Andrew," Eric declared loudly, pulling out of his mother's hold.

"Andrew's not coming with us," Marianne said quickly, grabbing his arm again.

"Why not?" Eric demanded.

"Why not?" Shannon echoed.

Marianne looked as if she might cry with frustration and something else. "Because he has other things to do. Important things. He can't spend all his time with us."

Eric looked up at Andrew standing motionless on the porch. "What do you have to do that's more important than us?" he asked with simple curiosity.

"I haven't the faintest idea, laddie. Ask your mother."

"Ma, Andrew says—"

"Into the car, Eric. I don't care what Andrew says, it's late and I'm not in the mood for arguments. Get in." She slammed the door shut behind him before turning her harassed gaze at the couple on the porch. Favoring the unrepentant Andrew with a furious glare, she cast a worried glance at Jessica.

"You look like hell, Jessica," she announced. "I really appreciate your taking the kids today, and I'm going to return the favor tomorrow and take Matthew. You look like you need some time off."

"I can take care of Matthew." Springer had come up silently behind them, and Jessica could barely control her nervous start.

"I'm sure you can," Marianne replied. "But I owe Jessica, and the kids and I really look forward to having Matthew."

"If you like babies so much, you ought to have another one," Andrew suggested out of the blue.

Marianne just stared at him in complete amazement for a moment. And then she climbed into her car and drove off without another word.

"Women," Andrew Cameron announced with a sigh, "are the very devil."

"Yes," said John Springer MacDowell, "they are."

The late August night was very still as they stood on the porch and watched Andrew drive away, the ancient Valiant performing valiantly as always. It was a warm night, with only the faintest whisper of a breeze stirring the thickly growing maple leaves. The warmth of the night, the distant buzz of the kamikaze moths, the smell of the pines and the rich scent of the wild roses stirred Jessica in ways she wanted to forget. She felt weak and tired and very vulnerable, and that was the last way she wanted to feel when she was standing alone with Springer MacDowell. He still seemed to hold a powerful fascination for her, and she had to keep reminding herself just how dangerous he could be.

"Here's your drink, Jessica," he said lightly, his arm reaching around from behind her holding a small amber glass. His other hand had caught her elbow, and he held her there, lightly enough, the glass just beneath her nose, the smell of Scotch wafting upward like a cobra about to strike.

She stood very still, momentarily paralyzed. "I—I don't like Scotch," she managed in a strangled tone of voice.

"I know you don't," he said, his voice flat and inexorable, holding no softness, no compassion. "That's what Rickford Lincoln was drinking the night you freaked out. I want to know why."

"I... don't... like... Scotch." She was trembling violently, her teeth chattering. She couldn't even struggle against that hand holding her captive, the glass of Scotch still held in front of her. His grip wasn't that strong, she could break away if she wanted, but she was caught, trapped, and there was no escape.

"Why, Jessie?" His voice was cold, urgent "Why?"

And then she did break his hold, pulling away from him. He let her go easily enough, but the Scotch spilled down the front of her loose cotton blouse.

She fell back against the column of the porch, staring stupidly at the growing stain, the smell of it surrounding her. It was like blood washing over her, she thought dazedly. She raised her head to look into Springer's coldly calculating eyes, and another shiver ran through her.

"I was sixteen," she said finally, her voice rusty with pain. "And I was a very young sixteen. I had spent most of my adolescence taking care of my family. I'd never dated, never went to parties, didn't even have any close friends that I could talk with. I thought sex was something that happened in movies, in fields of clover and daisies with pretty people. I didn't know it could be ugly and dirty and painful."

He was standing very still, watching her, the half-empty glass of Scotch in one hand.

"Are you sorry you pushed it, Springer?" she said grimly. "I can make you sorry; I can make you very sorry."

He seemed mesmerized by the husky sound of her pain-filled voice, but with an effort he shook it off. "So you had an unpleasant time with one of your sister's boyfriends," he hazarded. "No one much likes sex the first time. But they don't make a grand opera tragedy out of it; they don't use it as an excuse for the rest of their lives."

"It wasn't one of my sister's boyfriends, Springer," she said, a part of her anticipating his shock, a part of her relishing it. Let someone else share the horror of it for a change, let someone else hurt. "It was my father's drinking buddy. It was a fifty-three-year-old, fat, red-faced drunk who raped me on the kitchen floor while my father was passed out on the couch, who poured Scotch down my throat and did things to me I didn't even know people did to each other. And when my mother came home and my father sobered up, they told me I was lying, they told me I was just trying to get attention, and they told me to apologize to Uncle Bob. And that, Springer, is when I tried to kill myself."

He was standing there, very still, no discernible expression on his dark face. She pushed herself away from the dubious support of the porch and moved close to him, just inches away, and the heat from their bodies made the smell of the Scotch that much stronger. "Do you like hearing about it, Springer?" she questioned, her voice low and hurried. "Does it turn you on to hear just what a victim your son has for a mother?" She reached out and took the glass of Scotch from his hand, draining it defiantly. "I haven't told a living soul about that since my parents accused me of lying. Do you like hearing about it, Springer? I could go into all sorts of details if you'd like. I haven't forgotten it, you know. You accused me of having an incredible capacity for self-deception. But I never deceived myself; I always remembered. Maybe you'd like to hear how he made me help him, made me—"

"Don't, Jessie." His voice was low, hurting for her, and it was the last straw. She had thought she wanted him to hurt, wanted him to feel the pain she'd felt for so long, but she was wrong. The words were said, they were out, and she couldn't call them back, no matter how much she wanted to. And she wanted to very badly.

She looked down at the empty glass she was holding. "You were a piker, you know," she said suddenly in a conversational tone. "You thought you hated your father. It was nothing compared to how much I hated my parents. I hated them so much I would have killed them if I could; I hated them so much I was overwhelmingly, giddily relieved when they died, so relieved I could barely keep from laughing out loud at their funeral."