“Glenn feels that we can’t make a future together until we clear away the past.”
Clay splayed his finger through his hair in a jerking movement. “Just how much does Glenn know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything!” he exploded. “Only an idiot would have told him how you gave yourself to that rich boy.”
“I don’t have any secrets from Glenn.”
“Well, you should have. You gave yourself to him like a shameless hussy.”
Angie’s head jerked back as if he had physically slapped her with the words. Her fingers tightened around the oven door as she fought to maintain her composure and hold back the tears.
“I’ll just pray that you didn’t tell Glenn about your so-called marriage.”
“He knows that, too.”
Clay turned on her with mocking disbelief. “He knows that you behaved like a common tramp and still has anything to do with you?”
“Dad.” Angie reeled under the vicious attack of words. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”
The words sliced into her heart like the serrated edge of a knife. This was Clay speaking to her, she reminded herself. But not the lovable roguish father she loved. This Clay was a stranger filled with rage and bitterness. One Angie didn’t know or recognize.
“Glenn loves me.”
“He must.”
Angie’s vision blurred until the tall stranger before her became a haze. Somehow she managed to hold back the tears.
“I suppose Canfield claimed undying devotion. That sounds like something those greedy rich folks would do. He couldn’t stand the thought of you loving another man.” He rammed his hands deep within his pants pockets as he turned toward Angie. “I bet he’s kept tabs on you all these years, just waiting for you to find another man. Then the minute you did he popped back into your life, claiming he’s always loved you. Ha! The only things those Canfields love is greenbacks.”
“I don’t believe that.” Angie’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“I hope you told him a thing or two.”
“No. In fact, I’m seeing him next weekend.”
Clay looked stunned. “You won’t. I forbid it.”
Angie’s short laugh lacked humor. “It’s a bit late for placing restrictions on me, Clay Robinson. I’m a woman now, not a child that you can order about.”
Clay’s hand gripped the back of the chair as anger contorted his features. “I can’t believe my ears. This isn’t my Angie talking. You’ll do as I say or live to regret it.”
“Just what do you plan to do? Lock me in my room or send me to bed without supper?” Angie didn’t budge, but boldly met his gaze. “You’re talking to a woman now. Threats aren’t going to intimidate me.”
Clay was quiet for an exaggerated moment. “If you so much as speak to that rich boy, then you can forget you’ve got a father. You hear me, girl? I was fool enough to stand back and let you get involved with him the first time. No more. From now on you’re on your own. Understand?”
The thoughts that swam through Angie’s mind were ludicrous enough to bring a trembling smile to her lips. She recalled the last time she’d argued with her father. She had been twelve and afraid they were going to be kicked out of the small boardinghouse in which they were living. Clay hadn’t paid the rent in two weeks, and no amount of sweet talk was going to persuade the landlady to extend their welcome without payment. At the time Clay was playing the fiddle on street corners, collecting change. Angie had been the one to sit her father down and tell him the time had come to look for a job that paid real money. In his usual jovial way, Clay had sung her a song and claimed that a band would come along needing a fiddler and they’d be in Fat City. Angie had shook her head and calmly explained to him that there wasn’t any band. They needed money for the rent. She needed new shoes. Clay argued that all he needed was a little time. And twelve-year-old Angie, mature beyond her years, had told him time had run out. Clay had wept bitter tears, wetting her patched dress with his emotion.
“You hear me, girl?” Clay repeated.
“I’m seeing Simon.” Composed now, Angie met his gaze without flinching.
“Then you’ve made your decision. You won’t be seeing me again.” He stalked from the apartment, slamming the door as he left.
Crossing her arms to ward off the cold of Clay’s departure, Angie slowly shook her head. This had been far worse than anything she would have believed. Clay hated Simon with a bitterness rooted so deep that it had choked off even the most basic reasoning. Given time, Angie was convinced that Clay would come around. She was his daughter, his only child. By tomorrow he’d be back to apologize, she reasoned. When he’d had time to think things through, they would have a reasonable discussion and everything would be made right.
Monday afternoon Angie called Clay before she left the flower shop. Her day had been miserable. The argument had hung over her like a storm cloud from the minute she had climbed out of bed. Even Donna had commented on how unusually quiet Angie was. Clay didn’t answer.
Ten tries and five hours later, Angie broke down and drove to Clay’s apartment. It was just like him to be stubborn enough not to answer the phone. Fine, she’d face him head-on. This whole affair had gone on long enough. All the family they had in this world was each other. She wouldn’t be blackmailed by his demands, but the least they could do was talk things out reasonably.
No light shone through the window of Clay’s residence and, after knocking for several minutes, Angie gave up. Reluctantly she returned home, weighted with despair.
Simon phoned her Tuesday evening, sounding happy and carefree.
“Angie, you won’t believe what I did today.”
Despite her mood, Angie felt herself drawn into his happiness. “Tell me.”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Should I be?”
“That depends. No, on second thought, you wouldn’t completely understand this.”
“Then tell me.”
“I phoned the Y and volunteered to coach basketball next season.”
He was right, Angie didn’t know why this was such a monumental decision. Simon had always been a talented athlete. It seemed natural that he would share his gift. Maybe, she thought, she was supposed to be surprised that he chose something as common as the Y. “Congratulations.”
“I didn’t think you’d understand,” he said with a chuckle. “Angie, I’ve holed myself up in my own little world since my marriage ended. I’ve been little more than a recluse. Yes, I played tennis and racquetball and occasionally attended a social function, but it was only the motions of living.”
“Simon—”
“Angie,” he interrupted, “it’s taken me all this time to realize that when you left, something vital in my life went with you: the reason for living.”
“Oh Simon.” She felt the thickness building in her throat. When she left, all Simon knew was that she’d taken the money. All he knew was that she’d sold out. It was little wonder that animosity had dominated his life.
“Do you remember that I mentioned watching children play?”
“Yes.” Her voice grew soft. Children were her weakness. Clay Pots kept her busy enough to make her forget about the family she’d planned with Simon. Glenn had talked about marriage long before Angie had ever considered it. Only when he mentioned children did he sway her.
“Angie, you have to understand that was the first time I stopped and noticed children. I couldn’t bear to, knowing you and I would never have any.”
She closed her eyes and placed a hand over her mouth.
“Angie?”
“I’m here,” she answered, in tortured misery.
The line went silent. “Angie, what’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Oh love, I am, too.” For twelve years their lives had been in limbo. Now she knew if she chose to marry Lambert, Simon would be condemned to a life alone.
He
r throat felt hoarse, but she forced herself to go on. “With the past cleared, you’d be able to find another woman to love. I did. Glenn and I were thinking of marriage. In time, you’d do the same.”
“Yes,” he agreed, seeming not to want to coerce her into a relationship. “I believe that in time I could. But I’m hoping I won’t have to.”
Hours later, Angie lay in bed, sleepless. Charleston was hot and humid, and the night seemed the loneliest of her life. She tried not to think about Simon or Clay or the consequences if she turned away from either of them.
Unwillingly, she remembered Cindy’s words about Simon: an entity unto himself. Simon was independent; he needed no one. And yet he had built a house on the very property that they had once claimed as their own. A house that was little more than an empty monument to a marriage destroyed in its infancy. The house had become testimony to the stark loneliness of Simon’s existence. The house had looked huge from the outside, and although she’d only been in the kitchen, it had obviously been built with a family in mind. Briefly she wondered if he’d built it when he was married to Carol. Pain shot through her. No, she reasoned, from everything she knew of his ex-wife, the woman was a social butterfly handpicked by Georgia Canfield. Carol wouldn’t have wanted to live outside the social circle of Country Club Lane. The realization eased her mind, but it quickly grew troubled again. The thought of Simon living in the huge house alone distressed her. A part of Simon had never abandoned the hope that she would come back. Knowing that made her decision all the more difficult. How could she ever turn away from this man?
By Wednesday Angie was frantic to know Clay’s whereabouts. Every day she phoned the apartment. No one was there to answer, she discovered. Finally Glenn went with her to the tavern where Clay played to patrons who cared little for him or his music. The proprietor claimed that Clay hadn’t showed up since Saturday night and that if Angie saw him first, she should tell him there wouldn’t be a job waiting for him when he got back.
As he had always done when life became uncomfortable, Clay had run. The rascal, he’d done that to worry her, Angie knew. And succeeded!
“I wouldn’t be too concerned. Clay will show up.” Glenn placed an arm around her shoulder as they walked back to the car. This was a run-down section of town, poorly maintained. The streetlight had burned out, and without Glenn at her side Angie would have been anxious. Yet Clay came here night after night.
“He’s only doing this to punish me.”
Glenn unlocked the car door and held it open for her. “From the look in your eye, he’s doing a good job.”
“He’s my father.”
“Honey, I know.” He took her hand and squeezed it.
“We were both angry and said things we didn’t mean.” Angie waited for Glenn to comment about the argument. She’d given him a few details. Just enough for him to surmise what had taken place. Another man would have pressed his advantage, reminding her that if they married, Clay would bless that union. But Glenn remained silent, allowing her to form her own opinions.
They rode silently through the streets back to Angie’s place. Glenn stayed only long enough for a cup of coffee. If Clay didn’t show up by the weekend, they would look more seriously, he assured her. Glenn had connections. He kissed her lightly and left soon afterward.
Angie was anxiously watching the eleven-o’clock news for reports of unidentified bodies, and hating herself for being so dramatic, when someone rang the doorbell.
Clay stood on the other side, dirty and ragged. He didn’t look as if he’d had a decent night’s sleep since Sunday. For that matter, she hadn’t, either. Only Clay looked far worse.
“Dad.” Angie was so relieved to see him that she threw her arms around him and hugged him close. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
He simply nodded and patted her back. “Can I come inside?”
“Of course.”
He didn’t take a seat, but clasped his hands in front of him like an errant child. “I guess I’ve come to apologize for the things I said to you.”
“Dad, it’s forgotten.”
“I’ll always love you, Angelcake. But if you decide to have anything to do with the Canfields, it’ll ruin what we share. Glenn loves you. He’s good to you, better than that rich boy ever was.”
“It’s not that easy.” Her voice was low and pleading. She didn’t want to rehash Sunday’s argument.
“I can’t decide for you. But I think you should thank the good Lord for someone like Glenn Lambert. Don’t ruin your life a second time.”
Angie hugged her father.
“Now that I’ve said my piece, I’ll be on my way. The decision is yours. I just wanted you to know I was sorry for the things I said.”
“Thank you, Dad.” Angie recognized what it had cost him to come to her like this. The argument was the first serious rift in their relationship. Long after he had left, Angie marveled at the depth of this man who was her father.
She tossed restlessly most of the night and waited until nine to phone Simon.
“Angie.” He sounded both pleased and surprised that she’d called. “I tried to catch you last night.”
“I was busy.”
“I know. It was nearly eleven when I quit trying.”
“Was there something you wanted to tell me?” Coward, her mind screamed. Tell him now. Get it over with.
“Nothing in particular. I was going to tell you I chartered a plane and what time I hoped to arrive—”
“Simon,” she interrupted, her eyes closed and her back ramrod straight. “It would be better if you didn’t come.”
Eight
The force of Simon’s shock could be felt through the telephone. “Not come?” His tone demanded an explanation.
“Dad and I had a long talk and—”
“What has your father got to do with you and me?”
Angie pulled out the chair at her desk and sat down, propping up her head with the palm of one hand. “Everything. He’s been hurt. He doesn’t trust the Canfields, and when I told him that I’d seen you—”
“What’s the matter, Angie?” Simon cut in sarcastically. “Did he think I could fix him up with a gig at the country club? Maybe he wanted more money. My mother took delight in telling me how he came back looking for another handout.”
Angie gasped, utterly shocked. She sucked in the oxygen so fast her lungs hurt. “That’s not true,” she cried. “Clay wouldn’t do that.” Yet in her heart she knew he had. He’d begged her to go back and demand more money, and she had refused. So he’d done it himself. Angie’s face burned with humiliation. “He didn’t mean any harm,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry … so sorry,” she managed, struggling to keep her voice even. “It should never have happened … It won’t again.” Before she lost her self-control, Angie disconnected the call. For a full minute afterward, she sat frozen, as misery washed over her.
Love wasn’t supposed to be like this. Love should tear down barriers, build bridges, and make everything rosy and wonderful. But in Angie’s life, it had erected barriers. Walls so high that even the purest forms of love couldn’t conquer the granite fortress.
Tilting her chin proudly, she sat, unmoving, until a reassuring calm came over her. She wasn’t going to resort to tears. When she turned around and faced Donna, there would be a bright smile on her face.
Somehow Angie managed exactly that, but she didn’t fool her astute employee.
“Things sure have been different around here lately,” Donna commented, as her fingers busily assembled a funeral wreath.
“Oh?” Angie did her best to disguise her feelings. “I can’t say that I’ve noticed.”
“Since most of the goings-on involve you, I don’t suppose you have,” she mocked.
“You’re imagining things.” Angie, too, found something to keep her hands busy.
“Hmph! Is it my imagination that you jump every time the phone rings, then run to the back of the shop if it’s a certain low vo
ice calling? Half the time you come into work looking like you’re ready to burst into tears.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Could be,” Donna asserted, shaking her blond head, “but I see what I see. I figure that I’m going to be making a wreath for you one of these days, but whether it’s for a wedding or a funeral I can’t rightly say.”
Angie’s light laugh was decidedly forced.
Later that morning, when she had a free moment, Angie called Glenn at his office to tell him she’d talked to Clay. When Glenn suggested tennis at his club and dinner afterward, Angie agreed readily. The thought of spending another humid night cooped up in the apartment was intolerable.
Simon closed his eyes, cursing himself for having blurted out the fact that Clay had returned to Groves Point wanting more money. His mother had taken delight in informing him of the event. She hadn’t needed to elaborate; Simon could well picture the scene. Simon Senior had handled Angie’s father and had made certain the man would never care to return again. It was little wonder Clay Robinson hated the Canfields. His father could be scathing when the situation called for it, and undoubtedly that one had.
He took another long swallow of his whiskey sour and rubbed a pensive thumb across his furrowed brow. He was going to lose Angie; he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. She didn’t want him to come this weekend, and he knew why. That was the worst part. She loved him. But she was going to marry Lambert. After all these years, she was unwilling to overcome the differences that separated them. Love wasn’t enough for Angie. It didn’t conquer the fear.
Another sip of his drink dulled the ache that came with thoughts of her. He remembered holding her in his arms and the way she had melted against him. Her lips had been filled with a sweet passion, and although she’d refused to answer his questions about sleeping with Lambert, Simon doubted that she had. Angie was warmth and fire and sweetness and love all rolled into one. And he was going to lose her.
He slammed down his drink and called Prince to his side. Getting out of the house was paramount. Running, walking, anything was better than sitting here tormenting himself. He stood on the top step and looked into the woods. Their woods. A low-lying mist was coming in with dusk, covering the grounds until they resembled a graveyard. Without Angie this place would become little more than that.
Reflections of Yesterday Page 11
