Separate Beds (13 page)

“It's so dishonest,” she said lamely. Then after long silence, she asked, “When are the bar exams?” She could not quite believe what she was asking.

“I don't know the exact date yet, but sometime in July.”

She rested her forehead against her hand, as if unutterably tired of everything.

Suddenly he felt obliged to reassure her so he reached for her arm, which lay disconsolately on the tabletop. She didn't even try to resist the small squeeze he gave it.

“Think it over,” he said quietly.

“I don't want to marry you, Clay,” she said, raising her sad, beautiful eyes to him, a pinched expression about their corners.

“I know. I'm not expecting it to be a regular marriage, with all the obligations. Only as a means to what we both want.”

“And you'd start divorce proceedings immediately after the exams and you wouldn't use some clever tricks to get the baby away from me?”

“I would treat you fairly, Catherine. I give you my word.”

“Would we live together?” Her eyelids flickered; she looked aside.

“In the same place, but not together. It would be necessary for my family to think we were married in more than name only.”

“I feel utterly exhausted,” she admitted.

Some musicians filed in, turned on some dim stage lights and began tuning up their guitars.

“There's not much more to be said tonight”—Clay fiddled with the table edge a moment—”only that I'd keep out of your way if you marry me. I know you don't like me, so I won't push anything like that.”

“I don't dislike you, Clay. I hardly know you.”

“I've given you plenty of good reason though, haven't I? I've gotten you pregnant, offered you abortion money, and now I'm suggesting a scheme to get us out of it.”

“And am I so lily-white?” she asked. “I'm actually thinking it over.”

“You'll consider it then?”

“You don't have to ask. Against my better judgment, I already am.”

They drove back to Horizons in silence. As he pulled the car to a stop at the curb, Clay said, “I could come and pick you up at the same time tomorrow night.”

“Why don't you just call?”

“There are too many inquisitive ears around here.”

She knew he was right, and though it was difficult for her to be with Clay, neither did she want to give him her answer with an audience around the corner. “Okay, I'll be ready.”

He let the engine run, got out and came around to open her door, but by the time he got there she was already stepping out of the car. He politely closed the door for her.

“You don't have to do all these things, you know, like opening doors and pulling out chairs. I don't expect it.”

“If I didn't, would it make you feel better?” They walked toward the porch steps.

“I mean, you don't have to pretend it's
that
real.”

“Force of habit,” he said.

Under the garish light of the porch she at last dared to look directly into his face.

“Clay.” She tested the word fully upon her tongue. “I know you've gone with a girl named Jill Magnusson for a long time.” Catherine struggled to find a way to say what was on her mind, but found she couldn't say it.

He stood still as a statue, his expression void, unreadable. Then he reached for the screen door, opened it and said, “You'd better go in now.”

He turned on a heel, took the steps in one leap and ran to the car. As she watched the tail lights disappear up the street she felt, for the first time in her pregnancy, like throwing up.

The following day was one of those flawless Indian summer days in Minnesota which are like an assault on the senses. The warmth returned, dormant flies reawakened, the sky was deep azure, and the campus crimson and gold was vivid as autumn color peaked. It was October; new match-ups had been made, and to Catherine it seemed the entire population of the University moved in pairs. She found herself captivated by the sight of a male and a female hand with their fingers entwined, swinging between two pairs of hips. Without her consent her mind formed a picture of Clay Forrester's clean, lean hands on the wheel, and she wiped her damp palm on her thigh. She passed a couple kissing in the entrance to Tate Lab. The boy had his hand inside the girl's jacket just above her back waistline. Unable to tear her eyes away, Catherine watched his hand emerge from under the garment, then pass along the girl's ribs as the two parted, went their separate ways. She remembered Clay's words,
not a regular marriage with all the obligations,
and though that's what she, too, insisted it must be, there were goosebumps on her flesh. In the late afternoon, on her way home, she spotted a couple sitting on the grass Indian style, face-to-face, studying. Without taking his eyes from his book, the boy absently ran his hand up inside the girl's pantleg to her knee. And something female prickled down low inside of Catherine.

But I'm pregnant, she thought, and Clay Forrester doesn't love me. Still, that didn't make the prickly longing disappear.

Back at Horizons Catherine carefully changed clothes, though casually enough so as not to appear seductive. But when her makeup was complete, she looked closely in the mirror. Why had she reconstructed last night's careful shadings and highlights? Subtle mauve shadow above her eyes, a faint hint of peach below them, sandy brown mascara, apricot cheeks, glistening cinnamon lips to match her nails. She told herself it had nothing to do with Clay Forrester's proposal.

Turning from the dresser, Catherine found Francie waiting hesitantly in the doorway, wearing the first suggestion of a smile Catherine had seen upon her face. In silence, Francie extended the bottle of Charlie.

Catherine forced a bright smile of her own. “Why, thank you, I was just coming to get it.” The perfume followed the makeup, and a moment later Marie came in to say Clay had arrived.

When Catherine came downstairs, there was a first awkward moment while they each scanned the other's clothes and faces, that too-meaningful assessment making her heart thud heavily.

He was wearing navy blue trousers this time, stylishly pleated, and a V-neck sweater of pale blue lambswool. Beneath was an open collar, short tips clearly stating it was this season's style. He wore a simple gold chain around his neck, and it seemed to accent the golden hue of his skin. Admitting how utterly in vogue Clay always dressed, and how it pleased her, Catherine wondered for the hundredth time that day if she were doing the right thing.

There was a feeling of unreality about walking out before him, passing through the door he held open, feeling him behind her shoulder as they took the porch steps and walked toward the car. She battled to submerge the feelings of familiarity which were already cropping up: the way he leaned sideways from the hip when he opened her car door, the hug of the bucket seat as she slid in, the sound of his footsteps coming around the car, his own peculiar movements as he settled into his seat. Then once again the smell of his shaving lotion in the confined space, and all of those thrice-noticed motions of a man and his car: already she knew just in which order he would do them, wrist over wheel as he started the engine, the unnecessary touch on the rearview mirror, the single shrug and forward jut of his head as he made himself comfortable, the way he left his hand on the stick of the floor shift as the Corvette pulled away from the curb. He was driving sensibly tonight. Instead of the tape deck, the radio was on this time, softly, voices proclaiming musically that they were tuned to KS-ninety-five. Then, without warning, The Lettermen began singing, “Well, I think I'm going out of my head . . .” And Clay just drove. And Catherine just sat. Each of them wanting to reach over and turn the song off. Neither of them daring. Lights coming, going, flashing, waning while the car moved through the mellow Indian summer night, its engine cooing along on a note as rich as any coming from The Lettermen, whose song finally reached its medley stage and wove its way into words that were even worse: “You're just too good to be true . . . can't take my eyes off of you . . .”

Catherine thought she would do anything for some wildly pulsating disco! But she found she could not give credence to the meaningful words coming from the radio, so she braved it out until the song ended. When it had, Clay asked her a single question.

“Did the girls do all that to you tonight?”

But with the suggestive song ended, she'd regained control of her senses. There was no reason to lie. “No.”

He gave her a sidelong look, then tended to his driving again.

She somehow guessed where they would go. She needn't know the exact route to be sure of the destination. He drove as if it were predetermined, out onto the Interstate, under the tunnel and west on Wayzata Boulevard to Highway 100, then south toward Edina. Again the unwanted feeling of familiarity crept over her. She had a sudden desperate hope that she might be wrong, that he'd choose to drive to some other place, thus avoiding the establishment of further familiarities. But he did not.

The wooded trail wound up into the park, taking them to the same secluded spot as that first night. He stopped at the top of the gravel road and switched off the engine but left the radio playing softly. Outside it was full dark, but the vague light from the dash illuminated his profile as he entwined his fingers behind the steering wheel and distractedly tapped a thumb upon it in time to the music.

Panic clawed its way up her throat.

At last he turned, propping his left elbow on top of the wheel. “Have you . . . have you thought about it any more or decided anything?”

“Yes.” The lone syllable sounded strained.

“Yes, you've thought about it, or yes, you'll marry me?”

“Yes, I'll marry you,” she clarified, with no hint of joy in her voice. She answered instead with a throb of regret tumbling her stomach. She wished he would not study her so and wondered if he was feeling as hollow as she was at that moment. She wanted to get out of the car and run down the gravel hill again. But where would she run? To what?

“Then we might as well work out a few details as soon as possible.”

His businesslike tone thrust her back to reality.

“I suppose you don't want to waste any time?”

“Considering you're three months pregnant already, no I don't. I don't suppose you do either?”

“N-no,” she lied, dropping her eyes to her lap.

A short, nervous laugh escaped him. “What do you know about weddings?”

“Nothing.” She gazed at him helplessly.

“Neither do I. Are you willing to go and talk to my parents?”

“Now?”
She hadn't expected it so soon.

“I thought we might.”

“I'd rather not.” In the dim light she looked panic-stricken.

“Well, what do you want to do then, elope?”

“I hadn't given it much thought.”

“I'd like to go talk to them. Do you mind?”

What else could she do? “We'll have to face them sooner or later, I guess.”

“Listen, Catherine, they're not ogres. I'm sure they'll help us.”

“I have no illusions about what they must think of me and of my family. They can't be martyrs enough to be willing to forget all that my father has done. Can you blame me for being less than anxious to face them?”

“No.”

They sat there thinking about it for a while. But neither of them knew the first thing about planning a wedding of any kind.

“My mother will know what to do.”

“Yeah, like throw me out.”

“You don't know her, Catherine. She's going to be happy.”

“Sure,” she replied sullenly.

“Well, relieved then.”

But still they sat, aware of the sharp contrast between what
was
happening and what
should be
happening at a time like this.

Finally Catherine sighed. “Well, let's get it over with then.”

Clay started the car abruptly. He took them back down the twisting streets, through the rolling neighborhoods of elegant lawns whose breadth spoke of estates rather than lots. She heard the unfamiliar sound of tires on cobblestone as they swept up the curve and stopped before that massive pair of front doors she had once studied so critically from inside. They cowed her now, but she made up her mind not to let it show.

Following Catherine to the house, Clay found himself thinking of Jill Magnusson, and how it should be her going with him to speak to his parents.

The foyer assaulted Catherine with memories of the last time she'd been here: the way Clay had come breezing in and the scene that had followed. She found herself before the mirror, glanced quickly away from his regarding eyes and stopped her hand from touching a wisp of hair that was out of place. Disarmingly, he read her thoughts.

“You look fine. . . . Come on.” And he took her elbow.

Angela looked up as they approached the study door. The sight of them stirred her warmest blood, made it race crazily at their unexpected arrival. They were like a pair of sunchildren, both of them blond, tall and strikingly beautiful. Nobody had to tell Angela Forrester how beautiful a child of theirs would be.

“Are we interrupting anything?” Clay asked. His father glanced up from something he'd been working on at his desk. Everything in the room marked time for that interminable moment while they all allowed the surprise to run its course. Then Angela unwound her ankles in slow motion and removed a pair of reading glasses. Claiborne rose, halfway at first, as if stunned. He and Angela stared at Catherine, and she felt the blood whipping up her neck and fought the urge to duck behind Clay.

At last he spoke. “I think it's time you all met properly. Mother, Father, this is Catherine Anderson. Catherine, my parents.”

And yet, for a painful moment more, the room remained a Still Life With Parents and Children.

Then Angela moved. “Hello, Catherine,” she said, reaching out a flawless, jeweled hand.

Immediately Catherine sensed that Angela Forrester, like the girls at Horizons, was an ally. This woman wants me to marry her son, she thought, amazed.

But when Claiborne Forrester emerged from around his desk, it was with a less-welcoming mien, although he extended his hand and greeted Catherine, also. But where Angela's touch had been a warm peace offering, there exuded from her husband a coolness much the same as the other time Catherine had been in this room.

“So you found her, Clay,” the older man noted unnecessarily.

“Yes, several days ago.”

Angela and Claiborne looked at each other, then quickly away.

“Several days ago. Well . . .” But the word dangled there, leaving everything awkward again. “We're glad you've changed your mind and come back to talk things over a little more sensibly. Our first meeting was, well, shall we say, less than ideal.”

“Father, could we forego the obvious recrim—”

“No, it's all right,” Catherine interrupted.

“I think we'd all better sit down.” Angela motioned toward the loveseat where she'd been sitting. “Catherine, please.” Clay followed and sat down beside her. His parents took the chairs beside the fireplace.

Although her stomach was twitching, Catherine spoke calmly. “We thought it best to come and talk to you immediately.”

The eagle's frown was there upon Mr. Forrester's face, just as Catherine remembered it.

“Under the circumstances, I should certainly think so,” the man said.

Clay edged forward as if to respond, but Catherine hurried to speak first. “Mr. Forrester, I understand that my father has been here more than just once. I want to apologize for his behavior, both the night I was with him and any other times when I wasn't. I know how irrational he can be.”

Claiborne grudgingly found himself admiring the girl's directness. “I assume Clay has told you we have refrained from pressing charges.”

“Yes, he has. I'm sorry that's what you decided. I can only say I had nothing to do with his actions and hope you'll believe me.”

Again Claiborne felt an unwanted twitch of admiration at the girl's straightforward manner. “We, of course, know that Clay offered you money, and that you refused his offer. Have you changed your mind?”

“I haven't come here asking for money. Clay told me you haven't paid my father anything he demanded, but I'm not here pleading his case, if that's what you think. I never intended for any of it to happen. That night I came here I had already made plans to run away from home and make it look like I was headed across the country where he couldn't catch up with me. I thought when I was gone he'd leave you alone. If any of it could have been avoided by my staying, I'm sorry.”

“I make no pretense of liking your father or of excusing him, but I must admit I'm relieved Clay found you so this mess can get straightened out once and for all. I'm afraid we've all been rather anxious and have been upset with Clay's behavior.”

“Yes, he told me.”

Claiborne quirked an eyebrow at his son. “Seems you and Clay have been doing a lot of talking lately.”

“Yes, we have.”

Whatever Clay had expected, it wasn't Catherine's cool control. He was pleasantly surprised by the way she was handling his father. If there was one thing Claiborne Forrester admired it was spunk, and she was displaying an inordinate amount of it.

“Have you come to any conclusions?” Claiborne pressed on.

“I think that's for Clay to answer.”

“He didn't bother to tell us that he'd found you, you know.”

“I made him promise he wouldn't. I'm living in a home for unwed mothers and didn't care to have my whereabouts known.”

“Because of your father?”

“Yes, among other reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Such as your son's money, Mr. Forrester, and the pressure it could exert on me.”