Ethan

by Diana Palmer

  Ethan was having trouble breathing properly. All he could think of was what he'd said to Arabella the night before. He'd been out of his muddled head with an­ger.

  "I called off the wedding," he said absently, and winced.

  "She'll forgive you," Miriam said sadly. "I'm sure she feels the same way about you." She reached out and touched his face. "I do love my Jared, you know." She sighed. "I ran because of the baby. I thought he wouldn't want it, but now I'm not so sure. I could at least give him the benefit of the doubt, I suppose. I didn't sleep last night thinking about it. I'll phone him this morning and see what develops."

  "You may find he wants the baby as much as you do," he replied. He smiled at her. "I'm glad we can part as friends."

  "So am I," she said fervently. "Not that I deserve it. I know I've been a royal pain in the neck,"

  "Not so much anymore," he assured her.

  "I'll go and make that call. Thank you, Ethan, for everything. I'm so sorry about what I did. You de­serve more than I ever gave you." She bent and kissed him with warm tenderness.

  He reached up, giving her back the kiss, for old times' sake. A kiss of parting, between friends, with no sexual overtones.

  That was what Arabella saw when she stopped in the open door. A kiss that wasn't sexual and held such exquisite tenderness that it made her feel like a voy­eur. She knew she'd gone white. So it was that way. They'd reconciled. Miriam loved him and now they were going to remarry and live happily ever after. Miriam had won.

  She smiled bitterly and retraced her steps so that they didn't even know she'd been in the room.

  She ran into Coreen going down the staircase.

  "I'm just on my way to see Ethan. . . ." She stopped dead, staring at Arabella's suitcase.

  "Mary's driving me to town," Arabella said, her voice a little wobbly. "And I wouldn't disturb Ethan just now, if I were you. He's rather involved with Miriam."

  "Oh, this is getting completely out of hand!" Co­reen said harshly. "Why won't he listen?"

  "He's in love with her, Coreen," the younger woman said. "He can't help that, you know. He said last night that it was really only out of pity that he asked me here. He wanted me, but he loves Miriam. It would never have worked. It's best that I leave now, so that I won't be an embarrassment to him."

  "My dear," Coreen said miserably. She hugged Arabella warmly. "You know the door is always open. I'll miss you."

  "I'll miss you, too. Mary was going to take the dress back to the store for me, but. . .but Miriam might like it," she said bravely. "All it would need is a little al­teration."

  "I'll take care of the dress," Coreen said. "Will you be all right? Where will you go?"

  "I'll go to a motel for the time being. I'll phone my father when I've settled in. Don't worry, I've got money, thanks to Ethan's intervention. I won't go hungry, and I can take care of myself. But thank you for all you've done for me. I'll never forget you."

  "I'll never forget you either, darling," Coreen said quietly. "Keep in touch, won't you?"

  "Of course," Arabella lied with a smile. That was the very last thing she intended doing now, for Ethan's sake.

  She followed Mary out to the car after exchanging farewells with Betty Ann and a puzzled Matt. She didn't even look back as the car wound down the driveway to the road.

  Just as Arabella was going out to the car, Miriam was lifting her head and smiling at Ethan. "Not bad. I'm sorry we didn't make it. Shall I go downstairs and explain it all to Arabella and your mother?" she asked with a grimace. "I guess they'll pitch me out the back door on my head when I get through."

  "It's my head that's going to be in danger, I'm afraid," he said ruefully. "No, I'll handle it. You'd better go and call your Caribbean connection."

  "I'll do that. Thanks."

  He watched her go, and lay back against the pil­lows. He'd heard Matt and Mary come in and he was waiting for them to come and say hello. Maybe he could get Arabella up here and try to sort things out before it was too late. He heard a car door slam twice and an engine rev up, and he frowned. Surely Mary and Matt weren't leaving already.

  Minutes later, a coldly furious Coreen walked into his room and glared at him.

  "Well, I hope you're happy," she told him. "You've got what you wanted. She just left."

  He sat up, scowling at her. "Who just left?" he asked with a chilling sense of loss.

  "Arabella," Coreen informed him. "She said you'd called off the wedding. She left her dress for Miriam and said to congratulate you on your forthcoming re­marriage."

  "Oh, for God's sake!" he burst out. He threw his legs off the bed and tried to get up, but his head was still spinning with the aftereffects of the day before. He sat down again and rubbed his forehead. "I'm not marrying Miriam! Where in hell did she get that idea?"

  "From you, I suppose, after the bite you appar­ently took out of her last night. And something must have been going on in here when she left, because she said you and Miriam were involved when she came down-stairs."

  She'd seen Miriam kiss him. He remembered the kiss, realized how it would look to an outsider, and he groaned out loud. "My God, I've got a knack for ru­ining my life," he said with a rough sigh. "I must have a deep-buried death wish. Where did she go?"

  "To a motel, she said. Mary will know which one."

  He lifted his head, and his eyes were anguished. "She'll call her father," he said. "He'll be here like a shot to take her over again."

  "Do remember who pushed her out of the door, won't you, dear boy?" his mother asked with smiling venom.

  "I thought she'd deserted me!" he burst out.

  "As if Arabella would do any such thing," she scoffed. "How could you have believed it?"

  "Because I had a concussion and I was half out of my head," he returned angrily.

  "And what did she see on her way out that con­vinced her Miriam needed the wedding gown?" Co­reen added.

  "I kissed her. She kissed me," he corrected. He threw up his hands. "Miriam's going back to the Ca­ribbean to marry the father of her child, if everything works out all right," he said. "It was a goodbye kiss."

  "You fool," Coreen said evenly. "Four years ago, you put Arabella's welfare above your own. You married the wrong woman and cheated her as well as yourself, and now you've thrown away the second chance you might have had. Why didn't you tell Ara­bella how you feel about her!"

  He lowered his eyes. Some things he couldn't share, even with his mother. "She's career-minded. She al­ways was. She came here because she was hurt and needed some security. She was reluctant from the first when I tried to get her to marry me. I think she was afraid that she'd be able to play again and be stuck here with me."

  "More likely she was afraid you were just using her as a blind for the feelings you had for Miriam," Co­reen replied. "She said you only wanted her, but you loved Miriam. She believed it."

  Ethan sighed heavily and lay back down. "I'll go after her, when I get my head together."

  "Never mind," Coreen said. "She won't come back. She's let you cut up her heart twice already. She won't risk it again."

  His eyes opened. "What do you mean, cut up her heart?"

  "Ethan," she said patiently, "she was in love with you four years ago. Desperately in love. She thought Miriam just wanted what you had, not you. She was trying to protect you, but you accused her of interfer­ing and God knows what else. She ran then, too, and kept running. Didn't you ever wonder why she ar­ranged to come here to see Jan, and later Mary, only when she knew you wouldn't be here?"

  "No, because I was too busy making sure I didn't have to see her," he said doggedly. He averted his eyes. "It hurt too much. I was married, Miriam wouldn't divorce me." His broad shoulders rose and fell. "I couldn't bear the torment of seeing her and not being able to touch her honorably." He looked up at his mother. "How do you know how she felt about me?" he asked,

  "It's obvious," she said simply. "She chose music as a substitute, just as you chose Miriam. Y
ou're both fools. What a horrible waste of time."

  Ethan was inclined to agree. So Arabella had loved him. He lay back down and closed his eyes, trying to imagine how it would have been if he'd given up his plans to save her from what he thought would have been a mistake, if he'd married her instead. They'd have children by now, they'd be a family. Arabella would sleep in his arms every night and love him. He couldn't bear the images that haunted him. He'd driven her away a second time with his idiotic accu­sations, and now he'd probably never be able to get her back. He heard his mother leave, but he didn't bother to open his eyes.

  Arabella got a room in a downtown Jacobsville motel. There were several to choose from, but her fa­vorite was an adobe-style one with a Spanish flavor. She settled into her room, trying not to think how bare and austere and impersonal it was compared to the one she'd had at the Hardeman ranch.

  Mary hadn't wanted to leave her there, but she'd insisted. She couldn't stay in the house now that she knew how it was between Ethan and Miriam. It was too painful. A clean break was best. She picked up the phone when she'd unpacked and phoned her father in Dallas. The cast came off in nine days. Her father would meet her here then and they'd go back to Houston. He'd sublet their apartment there while he was in Dallas, but they could get another temporar­ily. Odd that it didn't even bother her to think about being back with her parent again. She didn't feel in­timidated any more.

  Time went by slowly. Mary came to visit, but Ara­bella was reluctant to listen to any news from the ranch, especially about Ethan. She didn't want to hear what was going on at the house, it would be too pain­ful. The only reality was that Ethan hadn't bothered to call or come by or even drop her a postcard, even though he knew by now—or so Mary had said before Arabella protested listening to news of Ethan—that Miriam had lied about the phone call. He knew, but he wouldn't apologize for the things he'd said. He never apologized, she reflected. Since Miriam was still with him, why should he bother? He and Arabella were now past history.

  Meanwhile, Ethan was trying to come to grips with his own idiocy. He was certain that Arabella wouldn't listen to him. He couldn't blame her; he'd certainly been eloquent in his condemnation. He thought it would be better if he let things cool down for a few days before they had a showdown. In the meantime, Miriam's man was on his way up to Texas. They'd reconciled and Miriam had been on a cloud ever since, barely coherent except when she was talking about the planter she was going to marry. Ethan enjoyed her company, especially now that he was well and truly off the hook, now that he was able to understand the past and why things had happened the way they had. Mir­iam had suffered an unfortunate experience with a family friend as a child. As a result, she'd become brittle in her dealings with men, and very hostile to­ward them. Only now, secure in her pregnancy and the love of her planter, was she able to come to grips with the past that had made her what she was when she'd married Ethan.

  Ethan's only regret was that he'd married her in the first place. It had been unfair to her, to Arabella and even to himself. He should have followed his in­stincts, which were to marry Arabella and let the chips fall where they may. He'd never been able to give Miriam anything except the dregs of his desires for another woman and, eventually, not even that. He hadn't understood that Miriam's childhood had made it impossible for her to give herself wholly to any man. She'd been looking for love in a series of impossible physical liaisons that were only briefly satisfying. She'd wanted Ethan's love, but he'd withheld it, and she'd tried to punish him. Arabella, though, had suf­fered as well, trapped in a career that her father con­trolled, with no hope of escape.

  It had thrilled him when Coreen had told him Ara­bella had once loved him. But he didn't know what she felt now. She probably hated him. He'd started for town three times in the past several days, but he'd stopped. She needed time. So did he. .

  Mary came up the steps as he was going down them, and he stopped her, trying not to look as unhappy as he felt.

  "How is she?" he asked bluntly, because he was certain she'd been to see her friend.

  "Lonely," Mary said, her voice gentle. "The cast comes off Tuesday."

  "Yes." He stared off over the tree-lined horizon. "Is her father here yet?"

  "He'll be here Tuesday." Mary was nervous of Ethan, but she hesitated. "She won't talk about you," she said. "She doesn't look well."

  He glanced down at her with flashing silver eyes. "Nobody told her to leave," he said cuttingly, stung by the remark.

  "How could she stay, knowing that you're going to marry Miriam all over again?" she asked. "I guess you two do deserve each other," she added with the first show of spirit Ethan had ever seen in her, and she was gone before he could correct her impression of the situation.

  What made everyone think Miriam was marrying him? He sighed angrily as he went down the steps. Probably because neither of them had told the rest of the family what was going on. Well, when her planter arrived they'd get the picture. For how, he couldn't let himself dwell on how bad Arabella looked. If he thought about it long enough, he was sure he'd go stark, raving mad.

  Mary and Matt had studiously ignored Miriam since Arabella's departure, and Coreen had been so coldly polite to the woman that she might as well have had icicles dripping off her. Ethan tried to make up for his family, which only reinforced their speculation about Miriam's status in his life.

  Miriam's intended and Arabella's father arrived in town at the same time. While Jared was being intro­duced to the Hardemans, Arabella was having the cast off and being told that her hand and wrist had healed almost to perfection. Her father had beamed at the specialist. But only at first.

  "Almost to perfection," Dr. Wagner repeated, frowning at Arabella's father. "Translated, that means that Miss Craig will play the piano again. Unfortu­nately it also means that she will never regain her for­mer mastery. Severed tendons are never the same when they heal, for the primary reason that they're short­ened by the process of reattaching them. I'm sorry."

  Arabella didn't realize how much she'd been counting on favorable prognosis. She collapsed into tears.

  Her father forgot his own disappointment when he saw hers. Clumsily, he took her in his arms and held her, patting her ineffectually on the back while he murmured words of comfort.

  He took her out to dinner that night. She dressed in her one good cocktail dress, black with a scattering of sequins, and knotted her long hair at her nape. She looked elegant, but even with the unwieldy cast off, she felt dowdy. The skin that had been under the cast was unnaturally pale and there were scars. But she kept her hand in her lap and in the dark atmosphere of the restaurant and lounge, she was certain that no­body noticed.

  "What will we do?" Arabella asked quietly.

  Her father sighed. "Well, for now, I'll see about releasing some of the new recordings and re-releasing the older ones." He looked across the table at her. "I haven't been much of a father, have I? Deserting you after the wreck. . . I guess you thought I didn't want you without a career to keep us up."

  "Yes, I did," she confessed.

  "The wreck brought back your mother's acci­dent," he said. It was a subject he'd never discussed before, but she sensed that he was getting something off his chest. "Arabella, she died because I had one drink too many at a party. I was driving, and my re­action time was down. Oh, there were no charges," he said with a cold laugh when he saw her expression. "I wasn't even legally drunk. But the police knew, and I knew, that I could have reacted quicker and avoided the other car. She died instantly. I've lived with that guilt for so long." He leaned back in his chair, mak­ing patterns in the condensation on his water glass. "I couldn't admit my mistake. I buried the past in my mind and concentrated on you. I was going to be no­ble, I was going to dedicate my life to your talent, to your glorious career." He studied her wan face. "But you didn't want a career, did you? You wanted Ethan Hardeman."

  "And he wanted Miriam, so what difference does it make now? In fact," she added without look
ing at him, "Miriam is back and they're reconciling."

  "I'm sorry," he said. He studied her. "You know, the wreck brought it all back," he continued. "Your

  mother's death, trying to cope without her, trying to

  live with my guilt." He studied his locked-together

  fingers on the table. "You needed me and I couldn't

  bear to face you. I came so close to losing you the way

  I lost her."

  His voice broke and Arabella suddenly saw her fa­ther as a man. Just a man, with all the fears and fail­ings of any other human. It shocked her to realize that he wasn't omnipotent. Parents always seemed to be, somehow.

  "I didn't remember how Mama died," she said, searching for words. "And I certainly didn't blame you for our wreck. There was nothing you could have done. Really," she emphasized when he lifted tor­mented eyes to hers. "Dad, I don't blame you."

  He bit his lower lip hard and looked away. "Well, I blamed me," he said. "I called Ethan because there was no one else, but I thought in a way, it might make up to you what I'd cheated you out of. I figured with your hand in that shape, Ethan might decide to stop being noble and give you a chance."

  "Thank you," she said gently. "But all Ethan wants

  is his ex-wife. Maybe that's just as well. Four years

  ago, I worshipped the ground he walked on, but I'm

  older now."

  "And still in love with him," he finished for her. He shook his head. "All my efforts backfired, didn't they? All right, Arabella. What do you want to do now?"

  She was amazed that he was asking her opinion. It was a first—like realizing that he was human and fal­lible. She liked him much better this way. It was a whole new relationship, because he was treating her like an adult for the first time. "Well, I don't want to stay in Jacobsville," she said firmly. "The sooner we can leave here, the better."

  "I guess I'll have to go to Houston and find a place, first," he said. "Then I'll see what I can do about finding myself a job." He waved aside her objections. "I've spent altogether too much time in the past. You have a right to your own life. I'm only sorry that it took another near-fatal wreck to bring me to my senses."