Against the Wind

by Gwynne Forster

  “Unca Jordan, I think maybe she’s going to visit her Unca Frederick. Aren’t you, Leslie?” Jordan ignored Clifford, who had become agitated by Leslie’s silence and her failure to answer him, even as the child ran to him for reassurance. Jordan walked to where Leslie sat, her hands folded almost as if in supplication.

  “I don’t think so, son. Where’s your tongue, Leslie? Don’t have the guts to tell him that you’re leaving us, do you?”

  The boy ran to Leslie, an expression of terror on his youthful face. Yet, he spoke with a icy calm. “Where are you going, Leslie?” His tone was that of one who has the right to an answer and knows it. She didn’t look at either of them.

  “I love you, Clifford,” she said, her voice dull and hoarse, “but I have to leave. If someone will take me to the bus station, I’m going to Baltimore.” He might have been programmed to do it, so rapid was Clifford’s move from Leslie to stand beside Jordan, taking his uncle’s hand in an unconscious groping for support.

  “When are you coming back?” was the boy’s next question.

  “She isn’t.” Jordan answered for her. Without another word, the boy bolted for the door. She reached blindly for the child as he disappeared down the hall.

  “Clifford! Clifford! Honey—”

  “Leave him alone. Nothing you can say will erase what you’ve just done. You’ve shattered his empire. Destroyed his security. Didn’t you know that his world revolves around you?” His frigid voice chilled her. This was a different Jordan. A man who had distanced himself, who’d re-erected a solid wall between himself and her. If he cared, no one would have guessed it.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to leave.” He turned on his heel and left.

  She stared into space, confronting the onset of her loneliness. Why had they, both of them, behaved as if she’d done something wrong? Why hadn’t they tried to understand? If she didn’t do all she could to get her MBA on her own terms, she would not be a whole person. And if she let Jordan take care of her while she did it, she wouldn’t respect herself. She blew out a deep breath and began to pack.

  * * *

  Leslie glanced around at her surroundings. Not the elegant Saber house, the big white Georgian with its high ceilings, numerous windows and spacious rooms. Slowly, she unpacked in the terrifying silence that brought sharply to fore the magnitude of what she had done. There would be no tears and no regrets, she’d hammered into her mind during the silent ride with Jordan to Baltimore. The longest ride she’d ever taken. When she’d told him she preferred Cal to drive her, he had advised her that he’d take her. Acting the part of the powerful boss of Saber Estates for the first time since she’d known him, he had coolly and dispassionately called her attention to his status.

  “Cal is not available to drive you anywhere,” he’d informed her in a frigid voice. When they had arrived at the YWCA, he’d taken her suitcase to the reception desk, placed it on the floor and turned to her.

  “I gave you a home at Saber’s for as long as you wanted it. I want you to remember that you were the one who decided to leave.” He didn’t give her time to answer, just turned and strode quickly away.

  * * *

  She tried not to reminisce, but she couldn’t help it. She’d thought she knew how much all of them meant to her, but she hadn’t. She’d hurt Clifford, and she doubted that he would forgive her. He had refused to tell her good-bye, locking himself in his room. So she had written him a letter and stuck it under his door. She hadn’t been able to find Julia or Cal and realized that they, too, were avoiding having to say good-bye.

  “What a mess I’ve made.”

  A week had passed, and she had to fight an encroaching feeling of desperation. She hadn’t found better accommodations, hadn’t done one bit of work on her thesis, hadn’t gotten a part-time job and hadn’t been able to suppress her yearning for Jordan. She had written three letters to Clifford and one to Julia, thanking her for her friendship and kindness, but what she wanted most was contact with Jordan, and she could forget about that. By the end of the second week, she realized that she was developing a pattern that wasn’t healthy: whenever she got into a deep blue funk, she sat down and wrote Clifford, though she tried not to communicate her misery to him. He still hadn’t written.

  * * *

  Jordan had spent hours going over every facet of his relationship with Leslie, and he’d concluded that her departure sprang from something far more crucial than his having paid her rent. He couldn’t dismiss the gnawing certainty that Leslie had a reason for withholding from him the name of the man who pursued her. Six days had passed, and his restlessness intensified. After dinner on a midweek day when he’d normally have been working, he dressed and drove to Westminster. She’d given him enough information to enable him to estimate the time of that attempted rape, but his search at the library proved fruitless. Glancing at his watch, he figured that he had about forty minutes in which to chase a long shot. Using his name like the official passport that it was, he got to see the county court clerk immediately, and an hour later, he had the information that he wanted. He thanked the clerk and headed back home.

  He closed the door of his office because he didn’t want to be disturbed. But now that he had the facts, did he really want to know them? He spread out the papers and saw at once what he looked for, a mug shot under which was printed Faron Walker, the man he had confronted at his garage door more than five months earlier. The man who was Leslie’s attacker and who, the records said, had spent three years in jail for it. What did he want with Leslie? Certainly not to finish what he’d started? No. Vengeance! The man wanted revenge, because she’d had the guts to bring charges and testify against him. He’d been paroled after having served three years of a five-year sentence. The parole officer’s notes showed that, after the sentence, Walker lost his job, and his wife was granted a divorce and sole custody of their children. The man had haunted Leslie ever since his release. No wonder she’d had four addresses in the last two years. What he couldn’t understand was why she had refused to give him the man’s name when she had most certainly known that he was her pursuer. And she had surely known that after her uncle’s visit.

  He didn’t want to care about Leslie, but he did. He read the trial records, noting that the defense attorney had been harsh and accusative with her, had attempted to portray her as a disreputable woman. That explained why she didn’t trust him fully and had been hell-bent on protecting herself, even when there was no need. He went to find Cal. He needed to talk, but not to Julia. She was too judgmental and too biased in his favor.

  Jordan sat staring at the man who for years had been his closest friend. “You’re telling me that I ought to go to Baltimore and get Leslie? She left of her own accord, and she hasn’t called or written me. The move is hers. Loving her doesn’t mean that I have to be her doormat.”

  Cal snorted. “What’s done is done, Jordan, and you can’t change it. That woman is the one you want, and you’re not going to be happy with any other. And I know you know it. Besides. Hasn’t it occurred to you that if he followed her here, as remote as this place is, he’ll find her in Baltimore, where she has no protection?”

  Jordan stiffened. “Of course it’s occurred to me. But she doesn’t want my protection or my help. That’s why she left here. To avoid both.”

  “You’re your own man, Jordan, but you’re being pigheaded right now. And you may be sorry.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clifford was quieter than usual at supper that night, though he hadn’t been his joyous self since Leslie had moved. Julia had tried without success to make up for the shock of Leslie’s leaving, but the boy rejected affection from any source.

  “What’s troubling you, son?” Jordan was as attentive as possible to Clifford, short of babying him. The child didn’t answer, and Jordan patiently repeated the question.

  “I don’t think you want to know, Unca Jordan.”

  “Why not? I want you to tell me whenever anything bothers
you. I may be able to help.”

  “You can’t help this.”

  Jordan stopped eating and rested his knife and fork on his plate, suspicious that whatever was troubling Clifford had to do with Leslie. And he thought that strange, because the boy had barely mentioned her in the three weeks since she’d left.

  “Try me.”

  “Unca Jordan, I think something must be wrong with Leslie. She was writing me every other day, but I haven’t had a letter in almost a week. Could you call her and see if she’s okay?”

  Jordan stared, his eyes wide. He knew Clifford loved to get the mail and distribute it among them, but the boy hadn’t mentioned any letters from Leslie. He’d almost pretended that she’d never existed.

  “You want to talk with Leslie? I don’t have her number.”

  “That’s okay. I have it. She sent it to me.”

  “Then why don’t you call her if you want to talk with her? There’s a phone in every room, and you know how to dial.”

  Clifford’s chin went out in defiance. “I don’t want to talk with her; I just want to know she’s all right.” The adults looked at him. They had known that her leaving had hurt him, but until then none of them had realized the depth of his grief. Trying desperately to control his quivering lips and nearly collapsing face, he spoke without looking up. “Aunt Julia, may I please be excused?” he asked and left the table without waiting for permission.

  “Damn!” Jordan was right on his heels. He’d had thirty-six years in which to learn how to take hard knocks, but Clifford was only eight. He put an arm around Clifford’s shoulder, walked him into the den and got a second shock. The boy had memorized Leslie’s number.

  Jordan waited as the phone continued to ring. Uncomfortable. What would he say to her?

  “Miss Collins, please.”

  Clifford watched as his face must have registered his concern.

  “Where is she?” He scribbled on a handy pad. “Thanks.” Uncharacteristically disconcerted, he turned to the boy and spoke barely above a whisper. “Get your jacket, Son. We’ve got to go to Baltimore.”

  “What is it, Unca Jordan? What’s happened to Leslie?”

  Jordan clasped the child to him and hugged him tightly, knowing that he probably frightened Clifford even more.

  “She’s had an accident. That’s all I know. Get your jacket, and let’s go.”

  When Jordan arrived at the garage, Cal and Julia were waiting there along with Clifford, who had remembered to tell them, even if he hadn’t.

  They found Leslie in a hospital room for four, but two of the beds were unoccupied. Clifford rushed to her. “Leslie. Leslie, are you all right? What happened?” She reached out and hugged him as best she could with one arm. Jordan stood over them, shocked at seeing her bruised and bandaged, unprepared for the pain that surfaced around his heart. He thought he’d suffocate. If only he hadn’t let her go.

  “What happened, baby? Can you talk? Tell me?”

  Leslie smiled a small smile through the tears that she couldn’t stop. “I got hit by a car,” she mumbled and appeared to struggle to get her bearings.

  “Did the car run a light ? The guy must have been speeding. Why couldn’t he stop?” Useless questions, he knew. But he felt so helpless, seeing her like that. Her reply shook him to the core.

  “Somebody pushed me from behind, Jordan. I’m sure of it. I was standing on the curb, when…”

  “What?” All four of them spoke at once. Jordan sat down. It wasn’t even a riddle. He’d get her out of there, and then he’d take care of everything.

  “How much damage?” he asked her softly, preparing himself for the worst. She told him that she had a sprained left wrist, two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a mild concussion and assorted bruises.

  Clifford’s face mirrored his grief. “Will you come back home with us, Leslie?”

  She longed to tell him what he wanted to hear because she had missed them all so terribly. Had wanted to go back to the sweet haven of Jordan’s love, to the warmth and security that she’d known among these people, but hadn’t known how to make the first move. She looked up at Jordan, who was waiting for her answer. She needed to know how he felt.

  “Well?” Jordan asked her, his voice soft and his thoughts concealed. She nodded as her tears broke loose. Julia walked over and took Leslie in her arms.

  “No need for tears. We all make mistakes, and you haven’t missed us any more than we’ve missed you.” She turned to Cal. “Honey, let’s go down to the cafeteria. I want some coffee. Come along, Clifford.”

  But he wouldn’t move. “I’m going to stay here with Leslie and my Unca Jordan.”

  “Would you please close those blinds?” Leslie asked Jordan. “The light hurts my eyes.”

  Jordan moved to the window, closed the blinds and worked at getting his emotions under control. The minute he’d looked at Leslie, his feeling for her had almost overwhelmed him. He wanted to caress her and love her, to love away the hurt and bruises; he needed to hold her, protect her. Disconcerted and unsettled by the force of his need, he squeezed her hand, walked back to the window, took a chair near it and calmed himself in the dark silence. She wouldn’t get away from him again. Not ever.

  Curious as usual, Clifford went to inquire about his uncle’s mood. Almost immediately after the boy moved away from Leslie, a figure stealthily entered the room and moved toward Leslie’s bed. Jordan was on his feet instantly and knew with certainty that he had his man.

  He whispered to Clifford, “Tell the nurse to get the police. Go.” And the boy went!

  “Don’t move another step, Walker.” The man whirled around and, recognizing his adversary, lunged, but Jordan sent him to the floor with one solid uppercut.

  “If you move a muscle,” he told the man, “I’ll finish you right here, right now. You weren’t satisfied with trying to rape her, lying in court and causing her to be subjected to a virginity test, following her around and even attempting to break in on her. You had to try to kill her.” He glanced at the knife lying on the floor, as Leslie’s bloodcurdling scream rattled his eardrums, but he kept his attention on the man he’d wanted for so long.

  “When that car didn’t do the job for you, you came here to finish her off. Well, you’ll be too old to hold a knife when you leave prison this time. If I have to use every dime I’ve got, I’ll see that you rot behind bars.”

  His gaze shifted briefly to Leslie, who sat up in bed staring catatonic-like, her mouth open in a silent scream and her face awash with tears. He resisted the urge to give the man the beating of his life. Cal and Julia returned just as Clifford arrived with the hospital police.

  When the officers took Faron Walker away in handcuffs, he screamed at Leslie. “I told you that I’d get you when I got out, and I will.”

  Jordan checked Leslie out of the hospital, hired an ambulance to take her back to the Estates and left the Town Car with Cal. Though Clifford wanted to ride home in the ambulance with Leslie and Jordan, Julia and Cal took him with them to collect Leslie’s belongings and settle her bill at the YWCA.

  Jordan carried Leslie up the stairs to her old room, laid her on her bed, knelt beside her and gathered her into his arms. “You’re home now, and I want you to stay here.”

  Her lips quivered, and her eyes blinked rapidly, but a smile, weak though it was, claimed her face. God help him; he’d almost lost her. He took her mouth urgently but gently, sweetly and then hungrily, his desire sending fire at lightning speed through his body. But he put on the brakes and busied himself making her comfortable. As soon as he got Leslie settled, Jordan telephoned Franklin Collins, gave him a full account, and invited him to join the family for the holiday festivities.

  * * *

  Four days before Christmas Eve, Leslie was able to have her meals at the table, but she had energy for little else, and she still had not regained her sense of belonging in the household. She could see that they were happy to have her back, but she felt guilty for having left them
and undeserving of their affection and caring. And Jordan. Not once since he’d kissed her after bringing her home had he so much as touched her finger. Cal’s words jarred her brain: If you leave him, he may not be here for you when you’ve got your degree and your life fixed up and you decide you can afford to take a chance on him. She needed Jordan desperately and wanted to reach out to him, but felt she had no right. What was she, anyway? Houseguest? Servant? Kept woman? She hated the position she’d put herself in. So she kept her distance, as much as it pained her to do it. If he had just once looked into her eyes and smiled a lover’s smile, she would have run to him.

  * * *

  After supper that evening, she went to her room. She hadn’t wanted her little apartment anymore, though she was no longer in danger, and Jordan hadn’t mentioned it. She wanted to be with them, a member of the “family.” She took a leisurely bath, patted herself dry, put on a pair of red cotton pajamas and crawled into the bed. Minutes later, her nerves began a wild dance; only Jordan knocked with that authority.

  “Come in.” She couldn’t believe he’d come to her, for he’d paid her little attention since he’d brought her back to the Estates.

  As usual, he didn’t waste his breath on small talk when his mind was on a serious matter. “Leslie, we have to talk.”

  Those words unsettled her, because conversations beginning with that phrase more often than not involved something unpleasant. He ignored her frown and continued. “Let the past go. We care for each other and you know it. I’m not going to permit you to pretend that I’m nothing to you. And I’m through acting as if I don’t want you and you don’t want me. You haven’t fooled Cal or Julia, and you’re causing unnecessary discomfort for everyone around us. Hell, I’m just going to tell them we’re lovers. They know it, and they’d be happy about it, if you’d just act normal. Every one of my workers knows how we feel about each other.”