Separate Beds (34 page)

Leaving her seat, holding Ada's arm, Catherine saw Clay and his parents moving, also, toward the center aisle. He wore a stylish cashmere coat of spice brown, its collar flipped up. His eyes sought and held hers as she moved toward him, and wings seemed to flutter within Catherine's chest as she realized he was waiting for her. There was a welcome feeling of security about anticipating his touch upon her arm. Without a word—for the bench had called the next case—it was somehow understood: Angela and Claiborne separated to make room for Ada between them as they left the courtroom, followed by Catherine, with Clay's hand guiding her elbow. Walking beside him, she caught a hint of his familiar cologne. She gave in to the urge to look up at him again, tightening her arm and pulling his hand against her ribs.

“Thank you, Clay,” she smiled appreciatively. “We really needed your support today.”

He squeezed her elbow. The impact of his smile sent flurries deep into her stomach, and she looked away.

Once again Clay sensed the changes in her. She had gained a new self-assurance that was totally attractive on her, while at the same time, she'd become dulcified. She was no longer skittish nor defensive. He noticed that she'd changed her hairstyle and that the summer's streaks were now blending into its natural gold color. He studied it as she walked a step ahead of him, mentally approving of the appealing way in which it was caught up with combs behind her ears, falling in blithe curls down past her shoulder blades now.

They reached the corridor and found Angela waiting there, gazing at Catherine, fighting tears.

“Oh, Catherine, it's so wonderful to see you.”

“I've missed you too,” Catherine got out. Then the two were in each other's arms and tears were hovering in the corners of both pairs of eyes.

Observing them, Clay remembered how Catherine had vowed not to let herself grow fond of his parents, but he saw that it hadn't worked, for from Angela's embrace she went to Claiborne's. It was the first time Clay ever remembered Catherine moving unguardedly into a hug, except that time with Steve.

Claiborne's bear hug made Catherine gasp and laugh, breaking the tension, but over his shoulder Catherine's eyes were again drawn to Clay, who was studying her with a faraway expression.

They all seemed to remember Ada then, and the reason for their being there. After they spoke of the case she had just won, the talk moved on to other things, growing a little fast and clipped, as if too much needed crowding into too little time. At last Angela suggested, “Why don't we all go somewhere and have a sandwich or a drink, somewhere we can talk for a while. There's so much I want to hear about Melissa and you, Catherine.”

“How about The Mullion?” Claiborne suggested. “It's a favorite place of mine and not far from here.”

Catherine glanced sharply at Clay, then at her mother.

Ada's hand fluttered to draw her coat closed. “Why, I don't know. I rode in with Margaret.” They now took note of Mrs. Sullivan standing by, waiting with Ella and Frank.

“If you'd like, we'll take you home,” Claiborne offered.

“Well, it's up to Cathy.”

Catherine heard Clay say, “Catherine can ride with me.” She slid him a look then, but he was buttoning up his coat as if it were already decided.

“I have my own car,” she said.

“Whatever you'd like. You can ride with me if you like, and I'll bring you back uptown afterward to pick up your car.”

The old Catherine intruded, with her impulse to fend off her feelings of attraction for Clay. But the newer Catherine was secure now and decided to go ahead and enjoy him while she could.

“All right,” she agreed. “There's no sense in burning up extra gas.”

Smiling at the others, Clay said, “We'll see you there then.”

And Catherine felt her elbow firmly clasped and snuggled against Clay's warm side.

Outside the wind was howling, eddying in miniature twisters in the valleys between tall buildings. Catherine savored the icy sting upon her cheeks, for they were warm, almost burning. She and Clay got to a corner and stood waiting for a light to change. Catherine kept her eyes on the luminous red circle across the street, but she could feel Clay's eyes on her. She reached to turn up her collar but it caught on the long angora scarf twined around her neck, and Clay reached a gloved hand to help. Through all those layers of wool, his touch could still raise goosebumps up and down Catherine's spine. The light changed then.

“My car's in the parking ramp,” Clay said, taking her arm again as they crossed the windy street, then crossing behind her as they turned the corner. Taking the outside, he brushed her shoulder. The touch made her tingle. She searched for something to say, but the only sound came from their heels on the sidewalk. He turned her into the echoing dungeon of a concrete parking ramp, its floor slick with motor oil. The heel of her shoe skittered, dumping her sideways, but she felt herself hoisted upright by that hand so secure on her elbow.

“You okay?”

“Yes, winter is no time for high heels.”

He watched her trim ankles, mentally disagreeing with her.

At the elevator he dropped her arm, leaned to push the button, and the silence seemed insurmountable while they waited, shivering, their shoulders hunched against the cold that seemed so much more intense in the concrete dimness. The elevator arrived; Clay stood aside while Catherine boarded. He pushed an orange button. Still they said nothing, and Catherine frantically wished she'd kept up a steady stream of chatter all the way because the privacy of the elevator was unbearable, yet she couldn't think of how to start.

Clay watched the light indicate the floors as they went up. “How's Melissa?” he asked the lights.

“Melissa's fine. She just loves the babysitter's; at least I'm told she's very content and happy there.”

The hum of the elevator sounded like a buzz saw.

“How's Jill?”

Clay looked sharply at Catherine, hesitating only a moment before answering, “Jill's fine, at least she tells me she's very content and happy.”

“And how about you?” Catherine's heart slammed around inside her. “What do you tell her?”

They had arrived at the correct level. The doors opened. Neither of them moved. The frigid air invaded their cell, but they stood as if unaware of it, gazing into each other's faces.

“My car is off to the right,” he said, confused by the confusion in his chest, afraid of making the wrong move with her.

“I'm sorry, Clay, I shouldn't have asked that,” she said in a rush, hurrying along beside him. “You have every right to ask about Melissa, but I have none to ask about Jill. I do wonder about you, though, and hope you're happy. I want you to be.”

They stopped beside the Corvette. He leaned to unlock the door. He straightened, looked at her. “I'm working on it.”

Riding to The Mullion they were both remembering the other time he'd taken her there. Suddenly it seemed childish to Catherine, the way they had grown so ill at ease with each other.

“Are you thinking about it, too, about the last time we went here?” she asked.

“I wasn't going to mention it.”

“We're big kids now. We should be able to handle it.”

“You know, you've changed, Catherine. Half a year ago you'd have bristled and acted threatened at the idea of going there.”

“I felt threatened then.”

“And now you don't?”

“I'm not sure of your question. Do you mean threatened by you?”

“It wasn't always against me that you put up your defenses. It was other things, places, circumstances, your own fears. I think you've outgrown a lot of that.”

“I think I have too.”

“Since you asked me, I'll ask you—are you happy?”

“Yes. And do you know what made the difference?”

“What?” He angled a glance at her and found her watching him in the failing light of late afternoon.

“Melissa,” she answered softly. “There have been countless times when I've looked at her and fought the urge to call you and say thank you for giving her to me.”

“Why didn't you?”

He'd had his eyes on her for so long she wondered how the car stayed on the road. Catherine moved her head and shoulders in a vague way that said she did not have the answer. He turned back to watch the lane, and the familiarity struck her with a breath-taking blow: his profile there behind the wheel, the wrist draped negligently as he drove with the ease she remembered so well. She let her impulses have their way and suddenly leaned over, putting a hand on his jaw and pulling his cheek briefly against her lips.

“That's for both of us, for Melissa and me. Because I think she's just as grateful to have me as I am to have her.” Quickly Catherine centered herself in her own seat and went on. “And you know what, Clay? I'm a fabulous mother. Don't ask me how it happened, but I know I am.”

He couldn't help grinning. “And humble too.”

She snuggled into her seat contentedly. “There aren't a lot of things I'm good at, but being Melissa's mother is . . . well, it's great. It's a little harder since school started, but I cut a few corners of housework time here and there, let a few things stay dusty, and I still find time for her. But I have to admit, I'll be glad when school is over and I don't have to divide my time so many ways.”

The kiss then had been purely a kiss of thanks. It was clearer than ever that Catherine's life was full and happy. She had it all together. Clay listened to her relating stories about it and suffered pangs of regret that she'd been unable to feel this fulfilled when she was living with him. He came from his reverie to realize she'd just said she was dating again. He submerged the twinge of possessiveness to which he no longer had a right, and asked, “How does it feel?”

“Terrific!” She flung up her palms. “Just terrific! I can kiss back without the slightest bit of guilt. Sometimes I can even enjoy it.”

She looked at him with an impish grin and they both laughed. But a hundred queries bubbled up in his mind about those kisses, the ones she shared them with, queries which, again, he had no right to ask.

They stayed at The Mullion for over two hours, until Angela had learned about each of Melissa's toys and teeth and vaccinations. Catherine was her new, free, easy self all the while. Clay spoke little, sitting back and studying her, comparing her to the way she used to be. And subconsciously comparing her to Jill. He wondered if she was dating only one man or several. He planned to ask her when he drove her back to her car.

But when the time came to leave, Catherine pointed out that it was actually closer to Claiborne and Angela's route to drop her back uptown, and she rode with them.

Clay stood in the window of the high-rise apartment he shared with Jill, staring down at the icy expanse of Lake Minnetonka in the cold, purple dusk below. The lake was a sprawling network of bays, channels and inlets in a western suburb bearing its name. Clay wished it were summer. In summer the lake was a water-lover's paradise, dappled by sails, dotted with skiers, peopled with fishermen, rimmed by intermittent beach and woodland. Its islands emerged like emeralds from sapphire waters. In spots where its shoreline was left to nature's whims, watery fingers erupted in lavender explosions of loosestrife, come August.

But now, in early December, Clay studied the frozen surface in distaste. Winds had whipped it into a froth as it froze, leaving it the pitted texture and color of lava. Rowboats and schooners alike looked bereft, overturned on the shore. Hoisted above the waterline their soiled canvas covers held dirty snow. On a spar below, a trio of dissolute sparrows fluffed their feathers against an arctic wind until they were blown off, trundled sideways as they flew. A small flock of mallards fought a headwind, then disappeared in their search of open water.

Watching the ducks, Clay wondered where the autumn had gone. He had drifted through it listlessly, free this year to enjoy the hunting he so dearly loved, yet somehow never even getting his gun out of its case. In the past he'd hunted with his father more than anyone else. He missed his father. But as winter thickened and intensified, so had his parents' disapproval over his living with Jill. Although they occasionally phoned, Clay sensed their silent chastisement, thus never called them back.

He saw Jill's car curve into the parking lot below and disappear toward the garages. Minutes later he heard her key in the door. Normally he'd have hurried to open it, but today he only continued staring morosely at the chill scene outside.

“Oh, God, it's cold! I hope there's a nice hot toddy waiting for me,” Jill said. She crossed to Clay, dropping gloves, scarf, purse and coat across the room like rings from a skipping stone, only—unlike ripples—the articles would not disappear. It aggravated Clay, for he'd just cleaned up the place again when he got home. Jill crooked an arm through his and rubbed her cold nose against his jaw in greeting.

“I like it when you get home first and you're here waiting.”

“Jill, do you have to drop your stuff everyplace like that?”

“Oh, did I drop something?” She looked at the trail behind her, then nuzzled Clay again. “Just anxious to get to you, darling, that's all. Besides, you know I always had a maid at home.”

“Yes, I know. That's always your excuse.” He couldn't help recalling how Catherine used to enjoy keeping the town house clean and neat.

“Irritable tonight, darling?”

“No, I'm just tired of living in a mess.”

“You're irritable. In need of some liquid refreshment. What have you been standing here brooding about, your parents again? If it bothers you so much, why don't you go over and see them tonight?”

But it only irritated him further that she simplified it so, as if his problems could be solved by a simple visit. She dropped her shoes in the middle of the room on her way to the liquor cabinet. She picked up a brandy decanter, swung around loosely to face him, and said, “Let's have a drink, then go out and get some supper.”

It was Friday night, bleak and cold, and he was tired of running. He wished just for once she'd suggest making dinner at home, doing something cozy and relaxing. The memory of sharing popcorn and studying with Catherine came back, so inviting now. He pictured the town house, Melissa in her swing with Catherine cross-legged beside it in her jeans. Looking out at the cold, icy lake which was receding into dusk's hold, he wondered what Catherine's reaction would be if he showed up at her door. Abruptly, he walked over and closed the draperies. Before he could reach for the lamp switch, Jill moved close in the dark. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her breasts to his chest and sighed.

“Maybe I can think of a way to coax you out of your bad mood,” she whispered huskily against his lips.

He kissed her, waiting for arousal to grip him. Instead, he was gripped only by hunger pangs; he'd skipped lunch that day. It struck him that the state of his stomach overrode his bodily response to Jill. It made him feel emptier, hungrier, but for something that went beyond either food or sex.

“Later,” he said, brushing her hair back, guilty now for his lack of desire. “Get your coat and let's go out and eat.”

Melissa was teething and fussy and whiny these days. She resisted bedtime, so Catherine often brought her out onto the living room floor until she fell asleep there, then carried her up to her crib.

The doorbell rang and Melissa's eyes flew open again.

Oh, damn, thought Catherine. But she leaned over, kissed Melissa's forehead and whispered, “Mommy'll be right back, punkin.”

Melissa started sucking on her bottle again.

Through the door Clay heard her muffled voice.

“Who is it?”

“It's Clay,” he said, close to the wood.

Suddenly Catherine forgot her irritation. Her stomach seemed to suspend itself, then drift back into place in an unnervingly tentative way. It's Clay, it's Clay, it's Clay, she thought, deliriously happy.

On the other side of the door Clay wondered what he'd say to her; she'd surely see through his flimsy excuse for coming here.

The door fairly flew open, but when it swung back she stood motionless. First impression made her momentarily mute: his wind-whipped hair in a whorl of inviting imperfection above the turned-up collar of an old letter jacket; faded jeans hugging his slim hips; his hands in his pockets like some uncertain high-school sophomore ringing a girl's bell for the first time. He hesitated as if he didn't know what to say, then his eyes traveled down to her knees, then back up, then seemed not to know where to rest. Everything in her went all loose and jellyish.

“Hi, Catherine.”

“Hi, Clay.”

Suddenly she realized how long it had been since either of them had moved and remembered that Melissa was on the floor with the cold wafting in.

“I brought Melissa a Christmas gift.”

She stepped back, let him in, then closed the door to find herself disarmingly close to him in the rather confined area of the entry.

Clay briefly glanced down at her attire. “Were you in bed already?”

“Oh—oh, no.” Self-consciously she tugged the zipper of her robe the remaining two inches up her neck, then jammed her hands into its pockets.

“I guess I should have called first.” He stood there feeling graceless and intrusive. The robe was fleecy pink, with a hood, and pockets on the front like a sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back with a plastic headband and the ends of it were still wet. Her face had that scrubbed, shiny look that he recognized so well. With a start, he realized she'd just gotten out of the shower. He knew perfectly well there was no bra beneath that fuzzy, pink fleece—he remembered that untethered look of hers.

“It doesn't matter, it's okay.”

“Next time I'll make sure I call first. I just bought something on impulse, and I was driving past and decided to drop it off.”

“I said it was okay. We weren't doing anything special anyway.”

“You weren't?” he asked dumbly.

“I was studying and Melissa was teething.”

He smiled then, a big, warm, wonderful smile, and she hunched up her shoulders and pushed her hands as far down in her pockets as they'd go because she didn't know how else to contain her happiness at his being here.

Suddenly there was a loud thump and the living room was plunged into darkness, followed by a second of silence before Melissa's wail of panic billowed through the blackness.

“Oh, my God!” Clay heard. He groped, touched the fleecy robe and followed it up the stairs in the direction of the living room.

“Where is she, Catherine?”

“I left her on the floor.”

“You get her. I'll get the kitchen light.”

Melissa was screaming and Catherine's heart threatened to explode. Fumbling for the light switch, Clay, too, felt a stab of panic. He found the switch, then in five long-legged strides was kneeling behind Catherine who had scooped up the baby and was muffling Melissa's cries against her neck. In the dim light Clay could see the table lamp on the floor, but unbroken. He touched Catherine's shoulder, then Melissa's head.

“Catherine, let's take her into the light and see if she's hurt.” He put his hands on Catherine's sides, urging her up and felt through the robe that she was crying too. “Come on,” he said sensibly, “let's take her to the bathroom.”

They laid Melissa on a fat Turkish towel on the vanity top. They could see right away where the lamp had hit the back of the baby's head. There was a tiny gash there and already it was starting to swell into a goose egg. Catherine was so upset that her distress was conveyed to Melissa, who squalled all the louder. So Clay was the one who swabbed the bruise and calmed them both.

“It's all my fault.” Catherine blamed herself. “I've never left her on the floor like that before. I should have known she'd go straight for the lamp cords—she does every chance she gets. But she was asleep when the doorbell rang and I didn't think anything of it. She started sucking on her bottle again and I was just—”

“Hey, it's nothing serious. I'm not blaming you, am I?” Clay's eyes met hers in the mirror.

“But a lamp that size could have killed her.”

“But it didn't. And it's not the last bump she'll take. Do you realize that you're more upset than Melissa?”

He was right. Melissa wasn't even crying anymore, just sitting there wet-eyed, watching them. Sheepishly Catherine smiled, sniffled, yanked out a tissue and blew her nose. Clay put his arm around her shoulder and bumped her up against his side a couple of times as if to say, silly girl. At that moment he understood why nature had created a two-parent system. Yes, you're a good mother, Catherine, he thought, but not in emergencies. At times like this, you need me.

“What do you say we show her the Christmas present I bought for her and that'll make her forget she even had an accident.”

“All right. But, Clay, do you think this needs stitches? I don't know anything about cuts. She's never had one before.”

They fought Melissa's tiny hands and caused her to start complaining again while they inspected the damage.

“I don't know much about it, either, but I don't think so. It's awfully tiny. And anyway, it's in her hair, so if there's a scar it won't show.”

Finally, Melissa left the bathroom on her mother's arm, looking back at Clay with a wide-eyed look of inquiry. He set up the lamp and plugged it in again, and they all sat down on the living room floor, the baby in her yellow footed pajamas staring so silently at Clay that he finally laughed at her. Her bottom lip started quivering again, so Clay suggested, “Hurry and open that before I get a complex.”

The sight and sound of the bright red, crackly paper captured the baby's attention as Catherine tore it off the white koala bear with its flat nose and lifelike eyes. At the sight of it, Melissa's mouth made a tiny “ooo,” then she gurgled. The koala had a music box inside, and it wasn't long before it accompanied Melissa to bed.

Coming back down from Melissa's room, Catherine found Clay waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his green and gold letter jacket slung over one shoulder as if he were going to leave. A throb of disappointment thudded through her. She stopped on the bottom step, curling her toes over the edge, hanging on by her heels only. Her fingertips unconsciously toyed upon the handrails. He stood before her, their eyes nearly on the same level, trying to think of something to say to each other.

“She'll sleep now,” Catherine said—not quite an invitation, not quite not.

“Good . . . well . . .” He looked at the carpet while he slowly threaded his arms into his jacket sleeves. Still studying the floor, he straightened the old shapeless collar while Catherine gripped the handrails tightly. He buried his hands in the jacket pockets and cleared his throat.

“I guess I'd better get going.” His voice sounded a little raspy, trying to talk soft that way so he wouldn't wake Melissa.

“Yes, I guess so.” It took great effort for Catherine to breathe. The banister felt suddenly slippery.

Clay's head came up slowly, his inscrutable eyes meeting hers. He gestured with one of his hidden hands as if waving good-bye—jacket and all.

“So long.”

She could barely hear it, he said it so softly.

“So long.”

But instead of moving, he stood there studying her, the way she perched on that bottom step like a sparrow on a limb. Her eyes were wide and unsmiling, and he could see the way she forced herself to take shallow, fluttering breaths. His own breath wasn't any too calm. He wished she wouldn't look so stricken, but knew she had good reason to be scared, just as scared as he was at that moment. Her hair was dry now, the ends curling wispily upon her shoulders, upon the folds of the hood that hilled up around her jaw. She stood there all still, arms straight out from her sides, looking almost breastless in her robe. Face shiny, devoid of makeup, hair unstyled, feet bare. He tried not to analyze, not to think either “I should” or “I shouldn't,” because he only knew he had to. He took three agonizingly slow footsteps toward her, his eyes roving her face. Then he leaned silently and put his face in the spot where her hair lay, lifted by that hood. He breathed of her remembered fragrance—soft, powdery, feminine scent that he'd always loved. Catherine's lips fell open and she moved her jaw against his temple while deep in her body things went liquid, deep in his things went hard. Her heart scrambled to make sense of this while it seemed to take light-years of time before he straightened and their eyes met. They asked tacit questions, remembered old hurts they'd caused each other. Then, still with his hands in his pockets, Clay leaned and touched her lips softly with his own, seeing her lashes drop just before his own eyes slid shut. He kissed her with a light lingering of flesh upon flesh, letting the past slip into obscurity, yet unable to prevent it from being part of the kiss. He told himself he must go, but when he drew away her lips followed, telling him not to. Their eyelids flickered open to breach that moment of uncertainty before he moved more surely against her lips. There was a timorous, first opening of mouths, warm touch of tongue upon tongue, then Clay wrapped his hands, jacket and all, around her, pulling her inside of it with him. Handlessly they embraced, for she still clutched the rails, and his hands were lost in his pockets behind her, quite afraid to pull them out and start something they certainly should not finish. But it was impossible, unbearable, this handlessness. Then Catherine seemed to lean off the steps, drifting into the warm place he opened up to her, losing her arms deep inside his jacket. He enclosed her in the cocoon of soft, old wool and leather, and hard, young flesh and blood, lifting her off that step, turning, holding her suspended against him while the kiss became reckless and she went sliding down his body. Her bare toes touched canvas and she was standing on his tennis shoes. One hand came out of his pocket and found her hair, cradling the back of her head, pulling her against his mouth. His other hand left the safe confines of its pocket and flattened itself upon the center of her back, then drifted lower, lower, to the shallows of her spine, to bring the length of her body against his. Through her robe she could feel his belt buckle and the hard zipper of his jeans, and she remembered drinking wine from his skin. Ironically, the thought sobered her and she tried to push away. But he pulled her almost violently against the thunder of his heart, crushing her.