Sweet Everlasting (42 page)

“Frank’s office?” Rather than squeeze her into their small, overflowing house tonight, the Odells had offered her the quiet and privacy of the old stables behind the house that Mr. Odell had turned into a study for himself last summer. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “it’s so small, and with no fire in the stove it’ll be too cold.”

“I’d warm you up.”

“I don’t think it would be right,” she said primly.

He smirked and gave a harsh laugh, but he didn’t argue. “Come over here, then.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the rusty divan in the corner, where the light wasn’t so bright. Even in her wool coat, his long arms went around her waist with ease. He squeezed her against him and kissed her on the mouth, long and hard. Since she’d come back from Philadelphia and they’d made their peace with each other, he’d been very bold with her body. He kissed her whenever he liked, but she still fought him when his hands tried to wander. Tonight there was something different in his kisses, though, something rough and not as easy to control. “Eugene,” she gasped, trying to push him away without making him angry.

He brought his huge hands up to hold her head still. “I don’t want you to ever say his name again, Carrie,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Hear me? Swear you’ll never say his name.
Swear.”

She considered that choice, and agreed to it. “I swear.”

“You’re mine. Say that.”

“I am.”

“Say you’re my wife.”

“I will be.”

But even that didn’t satisfy him. “Swear you won’t even think of him again.”

“Eugene—”

“Swear!”

She finally pried his hurtful fingers away. “I can’t. Not yet. But I’ll
try.
That’s what I promise.” She rushed on before he could get mad. “And I swear I’ll be a good and faithful wife to you for the rest of our lives. I’ll never give you cause to regret marrying me, Eugene. I’ll be your helper and your partner, and we’ll have a good life together.” His head came down, but she stopped him before he could kiss her again. “But you have to give me a promise, too.”

“What?”

“That you’ll try hard to love the baby. And that you’ll never, ever treat it unkindly because it isn’t yours.” He didn’t answer, and she just waited. He’d implied all of that already or she wouldn’t be marrying him, but tonight she wanted to hear his promise in words. “Well?” she prompted. “Will you swear?”

“Okay,” he said finally, “I swear. I’ll treat it like it’s mine. Try to.” His fingers in her hair tightened, and he covered her mouth in a bruising kiss that left her feeling drained and shaky. The porch light gleamed in his eyes, two white triangles against inky black. “Tomorrow night you’ll be with me in my bed, Carrie, in my house. Then you’ll forget all about him. That’s something else I swear.”

He left her standing on the porch. She could hear him whistling in the street for another minute, but the jaunty sound couldn’t block out the echo of his last words. For all the world, they sounded to Carrie like a threat.

She rubbed her arms with her mittened hands, shivering from the cold. She wasn’t ready to go inside, though, where she’d have to join in all the gay, noisy Christmas Eve fun with the family. But she couldn’t bring herself to retire to her own cold little room yet, either. So she stood still, watching the white clouds of her breath condense in the chilly air. It was a quiet night; no wind stirred the bare branches of the maple tree by the porch or the stalky privet hedges lining the sidewalk. She pretended the street lamp was the moon and made a wish.
I wish I could keep my promise to Eugene.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a man walking toward her in the middle of the street. Before he moved out of the light from the street lamp in front of the Conklings’ house, she thought he looked exactly like Ty.

She bowed her head in despair. She hadn’t even been able to keep her promise for one minute.

The sound of his footsteps changed, and when she looked up she saw the man had crossed the curb to the sidewalk. Sighing, Carrie resigned herself to it: he looked like Ty and he walked like Ty, he even swung his arms from his strong, handsome shoulders like Ty. And his hair, and his … he …

Her hands on the porch rail tightened like talons, and her eyes got big as an owl’s. Her lips made the shape of his name, but all that came out of her mouth was a breathless puff of white air. She put her hand on top of her head, to keep it on, and watched Ty come up the flagstone path, stop at the bottom of the porch steps, and look up at her.

Such a flood of emotion swamped her then, she had no words to greet him, no gesture of welcome, not even a smile. Jubilation danced over her skin and bubbled in her veins. Her heart sang a giddy song of thanks for the gift of Ty, the miracle of him.

But under the song thrummed a warning in a somber voice, reminding her of her promise.

T
HE PORCH LIGHT BEHIND
her shadowed her cheeks and made dark hollows of her eyes. Tyler couldn’t read her expression. She wouldn’t speak, and the tense clenching of her gloved hands could mean anything. “Hello,” he said, to break the queer stillness, abandoning the fantasy he’d entertained for hours on the train—that they would hurl themselves into each other’s arms, and all would be well without a word spoken.

She might have smiled; her voice was the barest whisper. “Ty,” he thought she said.

Out of patience, he took the steps two at a time. When he was level with her, she reached out—to touch his face, he thought—but she pulled back jerkily, thinking better of it, and started to step away. He took her wrist. Inside the thick mitten, her hand was as rigid as a bird’s claw. Before she could move, he whipped the glove off and brought her fingers to his lips. Dear, icy-cold fingers; they smelled like damp wool. He spread them across his cheek, murmuring her name. She stiffened in resistance, but only for a moment. He didn’t know who moved first but slowly, little by little, they came into each other’s arms, flowing into the embrace as effortlessly as currents merging in a stream.

They held each other with infinite gentleness, without speaking, without kissing. He felt her soft breath on his throat, the cupping of her two hands at the back of his head. And he could feel himself healing, jagged halves of himself merging, realigning; the painful ends of a fractured bone finally mending. When he could speak, he murmured, “My darling,” and saying the words aloud called back the memory of the last night they’d spent together, when he’d been free to call her that. The night they’d made the child she carried. Unbearable tenderness gripped him in a gentle vise. He closed his eyes and held onto her.

Much too soon, she slipped out of his arms.

“Where can we go?” he asked hurriedly, streaking a hand through his hair. The world rushed back with rude energy; it was very cold, and the glaring yellow porch light stung his eyes.

She hesitated, then gestured behind her at the front door. “The parlor? It’s empty, no one would come in.”

“No, Carrie, not in that madhouse.” Her fleeting smile mellowed his irritation at the very thought of the Odells’ parlor, which was empty because it was all set up for her damn wedding tomorrow morning. “Frank’s office,” he said firmly. “We can be alone there.”

Her ungloved hand fluttered nervously to her hair, which she was wearing in a rather elegant bun on top of her head. “But … that’s where I’m staying.”

How could he have forgotten how husky her voice was? He said, “Yes, I know. Eppy told me.”

“You’ve been here? You’ve already seen them?”

“I came straight here from the train station. They told me you were out, so I went for a walk. They said you were having dinner with your betrothed.” He tried, he really tried not to sneer the word; but she looked pained, and he guessed he hadn’t succeeded. “Come on,” he urged her softly. “I have a lot to tell you.”

“Eppy won’t like it,” she stalled. “It’s not proper, Ty. I don’t know if we should.”

“Carrie.” He sent her a look that brought some much-needed color to her cheeks.

“All right,” she agreed after a few awkward seconds, and went down the steps at his side.

Frank’s refurbished old barn was so obviously a hideout, not an office, that Ty had to chuckle when he saw it, by the glow of the oil lamp Carrie lit and set on a small table by the door. The only concession to work was a scarred oak desk; but it was littered with books and magazines, not articles in progress, and there was no typewriter in sight. The painted walls were bare except for a photograph of Eppy with all five children and, somewhat unexpectedly, a calendar whose sepia engraving for December featured a coy miss wearing drawers and a corset. An ancient swivel chair looked comfortable—he pictured Frank slumped in it with his feet on the desk, reading—and so did a worn leather sofa that took up most of the opposite wall. The sheets, blankets, and pillow piled on one arm told him it was to be Carrie’s bed tonight.

He watched her as she went to the cold black stove in the corner, knelt, and struck a match to the wood and kindling already stacked inside. She was skittish, but under the nerves he sensed a patient, simmering excitement. She took off her coat for something to do, although the fire hadn’t had time to warm anything yet. He’d never seen the maroon dress she wore with a jaunty jacket, a citified dress whose simple lines suited her perfectly. But he didn’t want Carrie looking suitable. He wanted her in the faded blue gown she’d worn all summer. He wanted her to look like his Carrie.

“You look beautiful,” he said from across the room.

She colored again and made a face at the compliment, clearly not believing it. He looked forward to a long, long life together during which, among other things, he would convince her of it. She looked healthy, thank God; “blooming” was the standard cliché, and despite her present agitation, it fit her. She wasn’t showing yet, but her face had lost a little of its angularity, and her long, lithe body had a new womanliness that fascinated him.

The queer silence was back. She stopped fiddling with her coat, which she’d folded over the top of a small suitcase resting on the floor, and faced him. “Did you know … ”she tried. “Did Frank tell you …”

“Tell me what?”

“That the wedding is tomorrow?”

“Yes, he did mention that detail.” She looked down, embarrassed by his not-very-subtle mockery. He thought of telling her it was himself he was mocking. He moved toward her, tired of the artificial distance between them; but the closer he came, the harder she pressed back against the shuttered window. He stopped two feet shy of her, dismayed, making an effort to keep his hands to himself. Her reticence cut deep, but he couldn’t blame her for it.

“Catherine Hamilton,” he said slowly, relishing the syllables. “I love your beautiful new name, Carrie.”

“Thank you.” Her sweet, wary smile went straight to his heart. “You look wonderful,” she said next, returning the compliment. “Tan and healthy and—strong. I was worried about you.”

“You should’ve seen me when I had my beard.” He grinned determinedly, rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

“Was it handsome?”

“Extremely. Dashing, too. I wanted to send you a photograph of it.”

“Why …” She stopped.

“Why didn’t I? Because eventually I got the message that you weren’t interested.” She dropped her eyes. “Why didn’t you write to me, Carrie?” he asked softly.

“I wanted to,” she said in a small voice. “When you lost your friend, Dr. Lazear, I wanted so much to tell you I was sorry. But I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been right.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was trying to let you go.”

The truth of that washed over him in a hot wave of regret. It was because of him they were standing apart in this cold, ridiculous room, speaking in stilted half thoughts like strangers. To save herself, Carrie had let him go, and it was his own ignoble doing that she didn’t have a clue her abandonment had hurt him.

“Well,” she said, head up, eyes level again. “You have a new job in Washington, D.C., I heard. Are you excited? When does it start?”

“I’m to report to the surgeon general in two days. I expect the job will start as soon after that as I can get settled.”

“That’ll be wonderful. I’m so proud of you and everything you did, Ty, all the—”

“I did very little.”

“That’s not true,” she said, without a second’s hesitation.

He smiled wryly. “You’re not much better than my mother in this particular area, you know.”

“What area?”

“The foolish pride area.”

She tried to smile back. But she was too distracted for small talk. “Why did you come here?” she asked straight out, brave as always.

“Don’t you really know?”

“I think you must tell me.”

Despite the gravity of the circumstances, her formal manner tickled him. “Can I kiss you first?” he teased.

Her luminous eyes went wide.
“No.”

“Can I hold you while I tell you?”

“No!”

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “All right, then, but you make it hard on a man.” His jesting smile faded slowly. So much for lightening the mood. “I didn’t hear until this afternoon about the lady who came to see me two days ago. Abbey said a Miss Hamilton was passing through, and she wanted to express the gratitude of the people of Wayne’s Crossing for all I’d done for them. I was mystified; I thought it must be a joke. I asked Abbey what she looked like. She had on a handsome blue merino wool, and a hat with a feather. She was very stunning.”

He paused, charmed by Carrie’s robust blush and the unmistakable look of gratification that unclouded her eyes for a second. It was consoling to know that a small shred of vanity dwelled in her feminine heart. “I admit that I should’ve known, but the ‘handsome blue merino wool’ threw me off.”

“Eppy picked it out,” she said faintly. “We went all the way to Chambersburg.”

He couldn’t help himself; he reached out and took her hand, which she’d been clenching at her side. He opened it, forcing her fingers to relax. “Your pulse is racing,” he murmured, his middle finger monitoring the little vein in her wrist.

“Ty, I’m so happy to see you,” she said in a rush.

He kissed her knuckles. “Oh, Carrie—”