"I've rushed you."
"No," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "Or at least not much. You never pushed. And God knows, I let you know I was interested."
His chuckle was rueful. "You know, Annie, I've never thought of myself as being a slave to sex. Not until I met you." He thought back to their first meeting. "I've never come so close to making an ass of myself as I did the morning we met."
"You did? You wanted me then?"
"I wanted you then. It was the strangest thing, as if I'd been looking for you a long time, and there you were, trying to kill yourself."
"I wasn't!" She looked down at the table, where her fingers were twisting together. "Well, not consciously."
He waited, knowing she had more to say.
Tears welled up in her eyes, ran in streaks down her pale cheeks. "Calvin drowned on August second."
"How long ago?"
"A year ago." The words came out in a broken whisper.
Unable to find words, know there were no that would help, he waited.
"Damn it," she sobbed. "I've talked about it too many times. I've relieved every second. Too many times. I need to get past it all. I need to move on."
"I'm not sure you can get past something like that. Maybe the only way to move on is to accept that it happened, that you can't change it, and to take the next step." He repeated his words in his mind. "I'm not making sense, am I?"
"In a way you are. You've lost someone you love, too, so you understand."
"Understand, yes. But you expect to lose your parents, sooner or later. Mom had cancer. She fought it for two years, through chemo and radiation. Nothing worked." He braced himself against the pain, still fresh, still sharp. "Dad lasted about a month afterward. He just didn't seem to be able to go on without her."
Her hand came across the table and clasped his. "Oh, Clay, how did you survive?"
A deep breath. "Like anyone does, I guess. One day at a time. I buried myself in work for a while, but I still had to deal with their estates. What made it tough was that they'd left me a sizeable inheritance. Far more than I'd ever expected. Enough to make me feel guilty that it would let me realize my dreams much sooner than I'd expected.
"I still wonder if I shouldn't have given the money away. It seems almost criminal to profit by my parents' death."
"Everyone told me I shouldn't feel guilty about Calvin's drowning," Annie said, still holding his hand. "Accidents happen, they said. But it wasn't entirely an accident, Clay. He'd be alive today if I'd been watching him as I should have."
"And you've been paying ever since, haven't you?" Clay asked, with a flash of insight.
"Yes." Annie nodded. "It felt wrong to feel good, to let loose and enjoy myself." She buried her face in her hands. Her next words were muffled. "Tonight... That's what I felt. Guilty, because I wanted you. And it was wrong. I just couldn't." Her sobs were the more heartbreaking because of their hopelessness.
Clay went to sit beside her. He gathered her into his arms, where she clung to him. After a while he picked her up and carried her across to the sofa where he laid her down and knelt beside her.
He pulled the afghan from the back and spread it over her. Gradually her sobs diminished. Her breathing slowed and became regular. He tucked the afghan around her shoulders, stroked his palm down the curved line of her spine.
She sighed and nestled into the sofa. Again he stroked her back, telling himself to ignore the residual hunger she still felt. Annie needed compassion, not passion, tonight. His body paid no attention, until he had to reach down and adjust himself inside of too-tight jeans. Disgusted, he jumped to his feet and strode into the bedroom.
"Horny bastard," he muttered. "She needs sympathy and understanding, not a roll in the hay." For a long while he stood by the window, staring out at the night. What a beating his self-image was taking. Lure a lovely woman to his camp and what did he get? The questionable privilege of providing a shoulder for her to cry on. Never mind that she needed his shoulder much more than she needed his kisses.
"Not nearly as nice a guy as you thought you were, are you, Knight?" he said to his reflection in the window. Eventually, he felt he could check on Annie without making a total ass of himself. He stepped into the other room.
"Annie?"
There was no answer, just barely audible, even breathing. Tenderly he smiled down on her sleeping body. In the dim light cast by the light over the range, he could see her tear streaked cheeks and matted lashes. He stood for a while, wondering if he should wake her. No, she needs to sleep undisturbed. Perhaps this time she'll heal.
As he leaned across her to an overhead bin, he smiled. Freed of the crippling burden she bore, maybe she could resume living. Perhaps in the morning her eyes would be cleared of the haunted, grieving shadow that had lurked in their depths ever since they first met.
"Annie Ogilvie, there's a possibility we might have a future together, someday." Tenderly he slid a pillow under her head, laid a light blanket over the afghan. "Sleep well."
As he stood there, watching her sleep, he promised--or did he pray? "Tomorrow is a new day, one without sorrow or guilt."
Chapter Twenty-one
Saturday
"Hey, can I talk to you?"
"If you'll give me a moment to get another cup of coffee," Cecile said.
"I'll get it. Cream, no sugar, right?"
"Right." The girl sees what's happening around her. She's not as indifferent to us as she'd like us to believe.
"Can we go outside?" Serhilda said when she returned with the coffee. "Somewhere private?"
"There should be some sunny spots in the grove. Will that be private enough?"
"Sure."
Cecile snagged a jacket from the line of hooks by the door. She didn't know whose it was, and didn't care. She'd return it soon.
They walked to the grove in silence. One of the split log benches sat in the middle of a bright patch of sunlight and they seated themselves. Cecile's coffee steamed in the cool morning air as she waited for the girl to speak.
Finally she said, "Do I have to go back to L.A. with Frances?"
Oh, dear, she doesn't know yet. "No, darling, you don't, not if you don't want to." No, I can't lie to her. I have a feeling she's been lied to far too often in her young life. She reached across and took Serhilda's hand. "I was going to tell you later, but this is as good a time as any. Frances is gone. She left yesterday afternoon."
Serhilda's face went absolutely blank. "She left me?"
"I'm afraid so. But don't worry--"
"I'm not worried. Not any more. I was scared she was going to take me with her. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to stay with you."
There was such an expression of hope on the girl's face that Cecile wanted to weep. "With me? But--"
"I know you probably don't want me, but I'll help out. I can cook--a little. And I can clean. Walk your dog. Drive you to the store. I'm a good driver. Les and some of his friends taught me, like, defensive driving. And I'm really, really good at keeping track of shit...stuff, like appointments and business lunches and cocktail parties."
Cecile stifled the laughter that threatened to bubble forth. Laughter mixed with tears, for a child who felt she had to pay her way with her own grandmother. Perhaps she has no idea what a grandmother does, the poor thing. "We'll have to think about this," she said, "but while we're thinking, remember this. You will have a place, whether it's me or someone else in the family. If I'd known about you sooner, I'd have done my best to bring you to us."
Serhilda turned away, as if ashamed of the tears that streamed down her cheeks. After a few minutes, she said, in a thick voice, "How come Frances hates the family so much?"
It was a question Cecile had asked herself too many times. "I wish I knew." She fought to hold back tears of her own. "Part of the problem may have been Kirby. He was a frail child from the beginning."
Serhilda made a sound that might have been a question.
"Kir
by was my son, two years and two days younger than Frances. He was a surprise to us all, as I would have preferred to wait until she was three or four before having another baby."
"How come you didn't?"
"There was no pill in 1953. We relied on other methods, and they weren't always foolproof. Kirby caught every bug that was going around. Ear infections, strep throat, one cold after another. I can't remember him being well from the time he was an infant. Now we know it was probably an immune system failure, but back then... Never mind. We were talking about Frances. I know she didn't get the attention she deserved, because I was busy with Kirby.
"She was one of those children who need a lot of attention. A lot of cuddling. And she didn't get it." Cecile shook her head, still feeling the weight of a half century of guilt. "I can't remember the first time she said, 'You love Kirby better than me,' but she couldn't have been more than five or six. I never was able to make her understand that I loved her as much as the other children. Never."
"Jeez, that's awful. She must've been pretty dumb not to see you were busy."
"No, darling, she was just a child, with all a child's needs and hungers. The trouble is, most children outgrow that total self-involvement. I'm not sure Frances ever did." As soon as she'd spoken the words, she regretted them. Frances was Serhilda's mother, no matter how poorly she'd done at it. No one should denigrate her to Serhilda.
"I don't think she did, either. Francis doesn't give a damn about anybody else. Never has." Serhilda turned around and speared Cecile with a steady gaze. "So. Can I come live with you?"
Despite the inner voice that told her she was crazy, Cecile opened her arms. "I would be delighted. We'll have a grand time together."
* * * *
"I locked the door this time," Hetty said, just before Frank reached for her. She rolled to her side and met him in the middle of the big bed. "It probably doesn't matter, now that Mother's gone, but I wanted to be safe."
He kissed her long and thoroughly. "Good," he said, when he raised his head. "How are you this morning. Too stiff?"
"Not at all. Are you stiff enough?" She ran a hand down his belly, clasped him. "Just about. Is it my turn to be on top?"
He flung his arms out to either side, spread his legs. "Whatever you want. Have your way with me."
Hetty contented herself with kissing a trail from his chin to his chest. When she raised herself so she could proceed farther toward her ultimate goal, her thigh protested intensely.
"What's wrong?"
"My leg. Hurts," she ground out between clenched teeth.
Frank rose up over her and flipped back the covers. "Good God!"
"What?"
"You've got a bruise the size of a dinner plate." He probed gently. "It's swollen, too. Shit, Het, why didn't you tell me? She hit you, too, didn't she?"
"Uh-huh. Oww!" She pushed his hand away. "It's just a bruise. I'll be fine."
"Oh, sure, Let me see you bend your knee."
She did her best, but had to stop when she started seeing pink spots. "God!" she gasped. "I've never had anything hurt like this."
"You should've had them look at it at the emergency room yesterday." He rolled out of bed. "Stay there. I'll be right back." He disappeared into the bathroom.
Hetty thought about getting up. She really did. She rolled to the side and started to swing her legs over the edge of the bed, then fell back. "Damn, damn, damn."
She was still there when Frank came back. He pulled on a pair of Levi's and a sweatshirt. "Stay," he ordered again, and left her.
"Shit!" He was going to bail. She just knew it. He'd spent a lot of money to come here, taken a week off when he had several juicy jobs lined up. I promised him a week of fun and great sex. So my mother tried to kill him, and even if I could get out of bed, sex is the last thing I want. Damn, that hurts!
Frank returned and sat on the bed beside her. "Your aunt will be here in a minute. God, Het, that's ugly." Gently he pulled the sheet over her, leaving her legs exposed.
"Thanks." She laid an arm across her eyes, not wanting to see him trying to figure out how to tell her he was leaving.
Aunt Louisa came in before she'd had a chance to build up a good head of self-pity. "Good grief!"
Hetty's whole body bucked at the touch of cold fingers on her thigh. "Oww!"
"Hold still." More prodding, some of which hurt like hell. "Why didn't you have someone look at this yesterday?"
"It's just a bruise."
"Let's hope that's all it is. Frank, will you go down to the kitchen and get some ice. Wrap a couple of handfuls in a towel. We'll try that first." When he'd disappeared, she said, "Hetty, do you have any aspirin? Ibuprofen?"
"I never touch the stuff. Help me. I want to get up."
"I'll help you get decent, but that's all. I want you to stay in bed this morning, with ice on that for a half hour out of every hour. We'll see how it feels by lunch time."
Hetty pushed her restraining hand aside. "No. I'm getting up." She fought the pain in her thigh as she pushed herself upright. "Hand me my robe."
"Stubborn brat." But she got the robe.
"You bet." Putting the robe on was easy. Then she tried to take a step. Her leg protested vehemently when she put weight on it, but it held her up. One slow step after another took her to the bathroom. Once there she pushed the door closed and leaned on the sink. Her body was soaked with sweat, her knees were shaking, and her stomach roiled. Half a dozen slow, deep breaths calmed her stomach, but didn't do a thing for her knees. When she tried to lower herself to the toilet, her leg gave way and she fell the last few inches.
The door opened and Frank filled the doorway. "You screamed?"
"Go away!" Oh, God, I don't believe this! She huddled into herself, pulling the robe close about her.
"Damn it, Hetty, are you all right?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
He hesitated, then pulled the door closed. "Call me if you need help," he said, his voice muffled by the door between them.
Fat chance.
She managed to finish, to stand, leaning against the washbowl, while she brushed her teeth. Her stomach was roiling again. Please don't let me vomit. I'd never get on my knees.
As soon as she opened the door, Frank scooped her up and carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently, pushed her back when she tried to sit up. "Stay," he said.
"Goddammit, Frank Everard, if you don't stop treating me like your dog, I'll...I'll--"
"Hetty, just shut up." He lifted her robe away from her bruised thigh. "This is going to be cold."
She shrieked when the lumpy cold plastic bag hit the bruise. Not from pain, although even that little weight hurt.
He held the ice pack in place when she tried to shove it away. "Be still. Shit, woman, we're trying to help you. Will you stop fighting us?"
"Here's a heating pad, Hetty. If you get too cold, you can tuck it behind you and turn it on low." Louisa laid a soft, thick towel over Hetty's leg. "And here's coffee. I put it in an insulated cup, so it won't be so apt to spill."
Hetty snatched the coffee from her aunt's hands. She took a hefty sip, then another. The hot beverage warmed her all the way down. "That's good. Thanks," she said, between sips.
Frank pulled the sheet over her legs. As he tucked it gently around her, he said, "I'm going over to the cookshack to get some breakfast. Do you want me to bring you anything?"
She shook her head, then changed her mind. "Can you see if there's any apple juice? And some soda crackers?" Those were the only two things she could think of that might not bounce.
"Right. I'll be back in a bit."
Hetty watched him leave, wondering if he was really coming back.
* * * *
Ward, Ben, and Gib were lingering over coffee in a nearly-empty cookshack. Althea and Louisa had departed for one last grocery run to Ashton. The rest of the Families had scattered after breakfast, most with plans for one last day of play. "This has sure seemed like a long week," Ward mus
ed, trying to decide why he felt that way. "Usually the time seems to fly past."
"Lots happening," Ben said, making it halfway a question. "Seems like every day had its crisis."
"Starting with Frances. Y'know, I never believed she was as bad as Thea said." Gib got up to refill his cup. "I was wrong. She's worse."
"A shame what she did with that girl of hers. And leaving her behind like that." Ben shook his head. "What's going to happen to her now?"
"She'll be taken care of," Ward promised. "I'm not sure what Ma has in mind, but she'll see that Hildy has a home."
"Hildy?"
"Would you name a kid 'Serhilda'?"
"Shit no. Hildy it is. I'll tell the kids," Ben said.
Gib, who was facing the window, stood up. "What the dickens is that kid up to?"
The others turned around. "Looks like he's laying a trail," Ward said. "Bread? No, it's popcorn."
Gib chuckled. "I'll bet he's trying to lure that 'coon we saw the other night. Doubt he has a chance."
Tommy disappeared into the grove. The men went on with their desultory conversation, but Ward kept an eye out. Tommy was a real live wire. Too bad Stephen didn't take more time with him. All that intelligence and energy needed to be channeled into constructive paths.
A week with Ben and Louisa would be good for the boy.
Tommy reappeared inside the Grove several times, always flitting between trees. Playing some kind of solitary war game, Ward decided. Or maybe he was a spy. "No, I don't think Annie's back yet," he replied to a question from Gib. "Does that bother you?"
"I have to admit I'd feel better if I knew more about this Knight fella. But Annie's a big girl. And it wouldn't do me much good to say anything."
"I'll take boys any day," Ben said. "Hardest day of my life was when Elaine told me she was living with Stewart."
"Living together's better than a one night stand. I just don't like--what?"
The shrieks were that of a child in pain. "Tommy--" Ward beat the other two to the door.
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