The Unforgiven (11 page)

Jess waited for her to continue, but Maggie fell silent. “Is that all?” he asked.

“It was awful,” Maggie insisted. He frowned at her. “I saw her grandmother. She was terribly upset,” Maggie blurted out.

Jess shook his head sadly as if he finally understood. “It’s an awful thing, isn’t it? A person struck down like that. I remember when Harriet was a strong, vital woman. But she’s had a hard time.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Maggie asked.

“A couple of years ago she had a series of strokes. Three of them. Boom, boom, boom. They didn’t think she was going to make it, but she hung on. Poor Evy was so scared. That’s all she’s got in the world. Her grandmother. Harriet’s been a mother to her, really, since her own mother got sick. Her mother’s been hospitalized for years, on the mainland.”

“And her father?” Maggie asked.

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. So poor Harriet had to cope with a growing girl, and all those worries. I guess it was just too much for her. It’s a shame.”

Maggie recalled the old woman’s pale, terror-filled eyes, and the hand clawing frenziedly at the arm of the wheelchair. “Is she always like that?” Maggie asked.

“I’m sure she has her good and bad days. But, more or less, yeah.”

Maggie did not speak for a moment. “It is too bad,” she conceded, “but I don’t see what that has to do with Evy’s being rude to me.”

“Come on, Maggie. The poor kid was probably
ashamed to have you see her grandmother like that. Evy’s a sensitive girl.”

For a moment Maggie remembered overhearing Evy’s defense of her to Grace and Croddick, the shopkeeper. She felt guilty for having complained of her behavior to Jess.

“Give her a chance,” he suggested.

“You’re right,” said Maggie. “I will.”

Jess turned the doorknob on the A-frame house, which stood on the crest of a hill. “I’ve been looking forward to showing you my house,” he said. “I did most of the work myself. Took me years.”

“The ocean sounds so close by,” Maggie exclaimed, pausing to listen.

“I’ve got a dock right at the bottom of the hill. I keep my boat down there during the summer. It’s a little inlet that leads right out to the sea.”

“What a soothing sound,” she observed.

“Come on in,” said Jess, making way for her.

It was chilly in the house. Maggie shivered in the doorway as Jess went around turning on the lamps. The living room where they stood had a cathedral ceiling and a Franklin stove at one end. The room was full of large windows, but Jess drew the drapes over them and began to straighten some of the pillows on the furniture.

“Don’t fuss with that,” Maggie reassured him. “It all looks wonderful.” The room, although slightly untidy, had a cozy, comfortable feeling to it. Maggie looked
around approvingly. “Did you really do all the work on this house yourself?” she asked.

Jess placed his hands on his hips and scanned the room. “Most of it,” he said. “Except the curtains,” he added thoughtfully. “Sharon made the curtains.” He waved toward the door. “The rest of it is back that way. Kitchen’s right through that door. My den, two bedrooms upstairs. I’ve even got a back porch.”

Maggie smiled. “It’s wonderful.”

“I think we need a little fire,” he said, crouching down in front of the stove. He began to arrange the crumpled newspaper and kindling. Maggie perched on the edge of the sofa, which faced the stove, and watched him lay the fire.

“When I was a little girl,” Maggie mused, “I liked to sit right up against the screen of the fireplace. I didn’t care how hot it was. I remember once my mother told me that someday I’d go up in flames.”

Jess struck a match and it flared brightly. Then he lit a torch of newspaper and eased it into the fireplace. “That’s a funny thing to say to a kid,” he observed. He rocked back on his heels and watched the kindling catch. Then he looked over his shoulder and smiled at Maggie. “Did your dad used to do this?” he asked.

“What?” Maggie asked guardedly.

“Light a fire for you. Since you liked it so much.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know,” said Jess, selecting a narrow piece of wood and placing it deftly in among the flaming kindling. “From different things you said I got the idea that you and he were close. That he liked making you happy.”

Maggie cocked her head and stared at the flames. “My mother said he would do anything for me.”

“You mentioned he’s dead,” Jess said, tossing a few more hunks of wood into the blaze.

“Yes. He died years ago. When I was a child.”

“Was he ill for long?” Jess asked.

Maggie shook her head slowly. “He had a heart attack.” She hesitated, and then she continued. “He was out working on the roof of the shed. He fell off the ladder.”

“Were you at home when it happened?” Jess asked, sitting back on his heels.

“I was sitting on the roof of the shed, holding the nails for him.”

Jess whistled. “That’s terrible. It must have been tough for you. Particularly for a little girl. They say that daddy’s her first love.”

The first, yes,
Maggie thought.

Jess put on one more log and stood up. “How’s that?” he asked, joining her on the couch. He sank down beside her, and the weight of his body caused her to roll slightly into him. “Maybe we should talk about more cheerful things,” he said, slipping his arm around her and studying her face. Tenderly he lifted a lock of hair from her forehead and smoothed it back. Maggie rested stiffly in the crook of his arm.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Maggie shrugged but did not reply. She was seeing her father, clutching his arm, his face ashen, the ladder falling. Falling away from her.

Maggie started as Jess ran one rough hand down the
side of her face. “You seem so tense. I’m afraid I upset you.”

Her cheek felt as if it were pulsing where he had touched it. “Well, I’m just not… I may be a little edgy tonight,” she said, squirming slightly.

“What can I do to cheer you up?” he asked. “You want to hear an elephant joke?”

“No.” Maggie’s laugh was more like a cough. His fingers on her arm felt electrically charged. She heard her own breathing becoming shallow.

Jess looked down and sat silently for a moment. She was acutely aware of his body next to hers. She felt as if her whole body were throbbing. “Maggie,” he said softly. “Listen. It’s hard for me to talk about my feelings.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said quickly.

“I want to,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve been alone a lot since my… since Sharon. You get kind of rusty.” He took a deep breath and went on. “There’s something about you. I noticed it right away. You let people know that you can take care of yourself. But you seem very uncertain too. Shy, kind of. Right away I felt something for you. I was touched by you. I’m not saying this very well. I felt,” he said carefully, “that there was something between us. Do you know what I mean?”

Tell him no,
Maggie thought.
Stop this right now, before it starts.
But at the same time her heart and her senses were clamoring for him. She sat in silence, avoiding his eyes.

“Was I wrong?” The gentle anguish in his voice caught her off guard. Impulsively, she reached up and touched his face. Jess turned his lips to her hand and
kissed her fingers. Maggie caught her breath at the caress, which brought back feelings long kept in check.

Tentatively, Jess pulled her toward him and pressed his mouth to hers. Every muscle in her body responded to his kiss, softening into silken cords which strained to wrap themselves around him. She breathed in the scent of his hair, the faint, sweet smell of pipe tobacco, and the rich smell of his body as his arms encircled her in an urgent clasp. She found herself being sucked into the vortex of conflicting currents. She struggled, then pushed him away.

“No, Jess,” she said, “I can’t.” Ignoring the pain in his eyes, she freed herself from his embrace and drew herself up. Without a word she stood up and walked toward the door to the kitchen, leaving him seated there on the sofa, staring ahead of him.

In the kitchen she leaned against the sink, her arms wound tightly around her, and gazed out the window at the inky sky. Her heart was still pounding as if she had just made a narrow escape.

She blinked away the tears which were forming in her eyes. The last time she had been with a man, the night of Roger’s murder, it had been snowing—the beginning of a blizzard, in fact. They had watched it start, lying amid the scratchy, rumpled sheets of the motel bed. The sky was that deep blue it is just before night falls.

“We have to go,” Roger said wearily. “That snow is really starting to come down out there. Look at it. I have to get home. She’ll be worrying.”

Reluctantly Maggie released him from her embrace.
She pulled the sheets up to her chin and watched the snow already piling up on the windowsill. Then her eyes moved to her lover as he slowly retrieved his trousers from the floor beside the bed.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “you should just tell her tonight.”

With a look of consternation in his eyes, Roger turned to face her. “Tell her?” he asked.

“About us,” she said boldly. “That you love someone else. Maybe she would give you a divorce.”

Roger’s forehead was ridged with pain. He turned away from her and stared out the window. His pants dangled from his hand.

Maggie leaned up on one elbow and reached out to touch his thigh. “Why not just tell her and get it over with. She may agree to the divorce. You won’t know unless you try.”

“I can’t do that,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

Maggie drew back her hand. “Why not? Roger, we love each other.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he turned to look at her sadly. “I told you a long time ago that it wasn’t fair. Maggie, I have to be honest with you. I have a family. A kid in school, a house, a mortgage. I have responsibilities. They need me.”

Maggie stared at him blankly. “I need you too,” she whispered.

“We have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Slowly she rolled over and buried her face in her arms. He began to dress in silence.

“Maggie,” Jess said softly. “Can we talk about it?”

Maggie jerked her head away from the window and saw him looking down at her, his eyes dark and troubled.

“Whatever it is,” he said, “why don’t we talk it over? I wasn’t trying to pressure you. Honestly.”

Maggie sighed and shook her head. “I know you weren’t. It’s not you. It’s me. Really. But I can’t help it. I should never have spent this time with you. I knew this would happen. It was a mistake. I just can’t. There’s too much in the way. Oh, I’m not making any sense,” she said.

“I thought you liked being with me,” he said.

“I do,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

“Look,” he said, “it’s not the easiest thing for me, either.”

She looked at him sadly. “Believe me,” she said. “It’s best this way. For you too.”

“Maggie, what are you…”

“Jess, I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

“Tell me why,” he pressed her.

“No, I… I have to go.” She pushed past him. “I have my car,” she said, grabbing her coat from a chair in the living room. “I can find my way out.”

You’re a fool,
she thought slamming the car door shut.
Do you want to tell him about yourself? Do you want to see his face when you tell him you spent the last twelve years in prison? Stay away from him. Do your job, live quietly, mind your puppy. That’s what you came here to do. Stay away from him. You are not like other people. You can’t live like other people. Stop pretending that you can.

Tears blurred her vision as she drove through the dark country roads. No feelings, she thought. That was how she had planned it. Just peace, and solitude, and a gradual subsiding of the painful memories. Maybe, after a while, a few friends, carefully chosen. That was how she had envisioned it. Not the emotional turmoil of a love affair. That was the last thing she needed. She wasn’t strong enough now. Safety. Anonymity. That was what she really wanted.

But even as she thought all these things, his face was crowding her resolve. Her skin felt as if it had been restored to life by his touch. Her heavy heart kept being pierced by the persistent thought,
You’ll see him again tomorrow.
She wanted to stop it. She did. But she knew she couldn’t.

The old woman shivered with the cold that seemed to emanate from the pit of her stomach. Her knobby fingers were stiff, like icicles. Beneath the thin flannel nightgown, her spindly legs trembled from the chill. But she was unable to retrieve the afghan, which lay on the floor beside her chair like a heap of funeral flowers on a new grave. She opened her mouth. A harsh noise came from her throat. Her granddaughter, who sat brooding in a chair across the room, finally looked up and glared at her.

“What do you want?” Evy demanded. The old woman tried to incline her head toward the blanket on the floor.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Evy snarled. “I’m tired of you.” Evy snatched the long-handled wooden spoon
from where it was hanging beside the refrigerator and began to smack it lightly against the sole of her slipper. The steady thwacking and the ticking of the clock above the stove were the only sounds in the kitchen. The old woman stared at her granddaughter, the limp muscles in her face twitching involuntarily.

“I don’t know why you had to make a fuss like that,” Evy said at last, pointing the spoon at her grandmother across the room. “I didn’t invite her here. I certainly did not. She wanted to talk to me,” Evy said in a scornful, singsong voice. “Talk to me?”

With a concentrated effort, the old woman pushed her emaciated forearm off the armrest of her chair until it fell, dangling beside the chair, grazing the wheel with her knuckles. The tips of her gnarled fingers could almost reach the peak of the heap of crocheted flowers. She strained to touch it.

“She found the package under my desk. What was she doing snooping around my desk?” the girl cried. “She should have kept her hands to herself.”

The old woman snagged a strand of wool on two fingertips. She let out a groan.

“Stop it,” Evy cried. She leaped from her chair, the wooden spoon in her fist. With a vicious smack she brought it across the old woman’s brittle fingers.