From This Day Forward

by Modean Moon

  Todd lay back against the pillow and looked at her. “My mother died,” he said, but she saw the glint of tears in his eyes. “She took too many pills and nobody came to help her and she died. And now I get to live with my dad all the time.” He turned away from her and spoke in the same quiet voice. “Maybe you’ll die, too.”

  She was cold, frigidly, piercingly cold in the flimsy lace and satin she wore. She reached out to touch the boy’s shoulder, to comfort the pain she felt in his small body, but he tensed at her touch, shrugging away from her hand, locking himself away from her. She stood, backed a few steps from the bed, and then, because she could do no differently, she ran from his room.

  And when she lost herself in Neil’s arms, she didn’t — couldn’t — tell him what Todd had said. She clung to him fiercely, trying with all the power of her newfound love to hold on to the happiness they had known for such a short time.

  Suddenly, the jangle of the telephone bell, its pitiful wet-weather whimper, shattered through Ginnie’s consciousness, bringing her a welcome reprieve from her memories. She snatched the receiver only to hear the all-too-familiar crackle of static. She waited for the noise to abate. She knew that it did no good to try to shout over it.

  “Ginnie?” Cassie’s voice fought with the static. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she called back. “Yes. Is something wrong?”

  “That’s my question,” Cassie told her. “Listen, is that phone getting ready to go out again?”

  “Probably,” Ginnie answered lightly, but the reality of what it could mean to be without a telephone on this of all nights thickened her throat and muffled her voice.

  “I thought they fixed it after the last rainstorm.”

  “So did I,” Ginnie murmured. “Oh, so did I.”

  “What?” Cassie called. “Never mind. I’ll talk quick just in case. Frank and I are getting ready to leave the parish hall, and it’s snowing like a son of a gun. How would you like for us to come by and get you now? The roads might not be safe by tomorrow, and I hate to think of you having to spend Christmas alone.”

  Could she go with them? Could she spend the night on their comfortable sleeper sofa, practically under the Christmas tree, wake up in the morning to the delightful sounds of their three boys tearing into packages, just not be here if Todd came, not be here when Neil—

  “No. No, thanks, Cassie.” It wasn’t hard to hide the tremor in her voice. The static helped. “But I’m almost ready for bed, and you know my Bronco will go anywhere. You and Frank had better get the boys home while you still can. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

  “I’m sure. Thank you, though.”

  “Ginnie?” She could barely hear Cassie’s voice over the furious noises on the line. “Did you take care of that other problem?”

  That other problem. “What? I can’t hear you,” she lied. Better this small lie than to risk explanation until she was certain what the explanation was, or to risk having Cassie and Frank disrupt their children’s Christmas to ride to her rescue. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Be careful going home.”

  That other problem, she thought as she sat at the kitchen table sipping now-tepid tea. She’d never told Cassie and Frank about Todd. They had moved to Pleasant Gap less than two years ago, after she had grieved for him, and long after she and Neil had divorced. They were a part of her new life, a life she had systematically and deliberately built for herself, a life into which she did not allow the past to intrude. They knew Neil’s name, and Todd’s name, and that she was divorced. And that was all that was necessary for them to know. It was who she was now that they had befriended. It was who she was now that they knew.

  And it was a good life. After those hectic days in Little Rock, after the turmoil of her marriage, it was a good life. Her journalism students at the junior college liked her. Her youth group at the church did, too. Hardly a day passed without one of the kids popping in for a visit at this very table. She didn’t have time to be lonely. And if it seemed as though she might have, there was always something to be done at the college, or the church, or a feature to write for one of the many state papers that occasionally carried her byline.

  Time moved swiftly for Ginnie, and only at a moment like this could she pause long enough to wonder why it seemed so necessary that it do so. It was only at a moment like this that she could acknowledge what she had always known — that something was behind her, waiting for her to slow down so that it could catch her.

  She spread her hands flat on the table before her and leaned her head on them. Slowly, as though in supplication, she stretched across the narrow table, gripping the opposite edge as a long, keening wail broke from her and she mourned what could have been.

  Chapter 3

  Damn you, Neil Kendrick. The accusation in Ginnie’s words floated through Neil’s thoughts as he made the necessary phone calls. He should have listened to his inner voice that told him something was wrong when he’d first got her message to call. He should have been more open to her instead of building his defenses, but, damn it, he never had been able to say what he felt to Ginnie. Why should this time have been different?

  He’d heard the fear in her voice immediately and sensed, later, the tears she wouldn’t now let him see. Would he be able to comfort her? Or would his presence, with both of them knowing that if he had listened to her earlier this might not have happened, tear them farther apart?

  He found Kirk in the library, talking quietly with Carole Flannagan. Silently they walked with him to a secluded corner of the room. Carole had heard part of his conversation with the sanitarium. Kirk had not.

  “Todd has run away,” Neil said softly.

  Kirk cast a startled glance at Carole but said nothing.

  “He called Ginnie. He may be on his way there now. I’m going up to be with her until we hear something definite.”

  “How is she?” Kirk asked.

  “She’s frightened, but that’s to be expected.”

  “How are you?”

  Neil ran his hand through his hair and then clenched his fists at his sides, impatient with this show of weakness. “I’m fine. They were trying something new, taking him off all medication to see if they could get a clearer diagnosis.”

  Carole slipped her arms around him and hugged him to her.

  “It will’ be all right, Carole. He’s never gone far. He’ll probably be back before I even get to Pleasant Gap. But if he isn’t—”

  “Things are under control here, Neil,” Kirk interrupted. “Take all the time you need.”

  “And we don’t have anything scheduled until after the first of the year,” Carole added.

  Take all the time you need. Todd will love you, too. Trust me. It won’t be long. I’m sorry, Mr. Kendrick, I can’t give you an answer now. Only time will tell how serious the damage is.

  Had time run out? Neil didn’t wait to change clothes. He grabbed a few things from his apartment, left Ginnie’s telephone number with his answering service, and drove into the snow.

  Ginnie and Neil. Ginnie and Neil. Ginnie and Neil. The branch against the window screen scraped out the words. The windshield wipers, fighting the ever-heavier snow, echoed them. They should have had the world in tow by now. Instead, it was crumbling around them, and there seemed to be no way to stop it.

  Ginnie flung open the door to the bathroom, steamy from her quick tub, and stepped gratefully into the air-conditioned comfort of the bedroom. She was already wilting. The lights of Little Rock were just beginning to flicker on, and she paused at the window for a moment, looking over them, before she drew the drapes across the balcony doors. Dimly it registered that the season had again changed, and then with more clarity that it was June. June already. Almost a year had passed since she and Neil had first met, and where had it gone?

  Hurried, she corrected. Hurried the way today had. Hurried, without time to stop and enjoy the quiet view. Hurried, without the lux
ury of peaceful time together. Hurried, with no way to cease the interruptions by the newspaper, Neil’s law practice or Todd.

  She heard the peal of the doorbell downstairs, and Charlie’s one deep bark as she slipped into the coral silk dress she had bought for this evening. At least the sitter was on time. It wouldn’t do for them to be late tonight.

  “Aren’t you ready yet?” Neil called from the door as she bent over her sandals, trying to buckle the straps.

  She looked up at him sideways, through the mass of hair that had fallen over her face. God, he was beautiful — impatient, but beautiful—in his tux and tucked white shirt and gold studs. Just one kiss, Neil Kendrick, she thought, just a smile and one quick kiss and maybe she wouldn’t feel like something he was dragging around because he had to.

  His eyes darkened as he looked at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” She fought the buckle into place and stood to look up at him. “It’s just that I’ve never had dinner with a governor before.”

  And miraculously, the smile she had longed for softened his features. She waited expectantly while he crossed the room and took her face in his hands. “You’re beautiful,” he said, his mouth just inches from hers. “Have I told you that lately?”

  She shook her head and waited silently for his kiss. It didn’t come.

  “I’ve been careless,” he told her. “You’ll shine like a jewel tonight.” He grinned then. “But not if we’re late.” He snatched her shawl and purse from the bed. “Come on.”

  They were not late, and, with the pride he seemed to take in introducing her, she did feel as though she were shining. Her reporter’s eyes made note of the subdued elegance of the governor’s mansion, even knowing this could not be a working evening. It was not a large gathering, perhaps thirty people, and the men’s faces were all familiar to her. She recognized several state legislators, a United States senator, a Supreme Court justice, an investor from Little Rock, an oilman from Texarkana, and, of course, the governor.

  Neil selected a glass of white wine for her from a tray offered by a uniformed waiter. She concentrated on identifying and remembering which woman belonged with each influential man as she held the stemmed crystal in her hand and smiled, and made appropriate responses to gently probing questions, and laughed subtly at subtle jokes.

  Dinner for thirty, with fine table linens, Waterford crystal, Lennox china, heavy sterling flatware and an undercurrent that at least the men seemed aware of. Ginnie would have been more comfortable with wine in plastic cups and pizza from a box in the back offices of the newsroom, but no one, except perhaps Neil, realized that as she flowed with the conversation around her. Only after the waiters had removed the dessert dishes and refilled the fragile cups did she allow herself to seek the comfort of Neil’s thigh beneath the covering of the tablecloth. He captured her hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly. A common thread had become apparent to her. This was not a bipartisan gathering.

  After dinner, they drifted into seemingly casual groupings, sipping drinks, while discreet music filled any silences. She and Neil were seated with a couple about their ages. The man was an attorney, like Neil, but he also served as state senator for a district in the Fort Smith area. The woman had been born to money and wore it well. The conversation was superficial, books and shows, nothing controversial, until a polite waiter delivered a message to Neil. With a slight apology, Neil and the senator excused themselves.

  Discreet. That was the word for the entire evening, Ginnie thought. She looked around the room and stifled a laugh. And Victorian. Except for the waiters moving, discreetly, of course, through the room, she didn’t see another man.

  A silver-haired woman wearing ice blue and illusive, expensive perfume moved to sit beside her on the Chippendale sofa. Ginnie searched her memory for the woman’s identity. Oh, yes. The investor’s wife.

  “Mrs. Kendrick, it’s been delightful meeting you after all the complimentary things I’ve heard about you.”

  Ginnie smiled. She knew, somehow, that she must do that. And return the pleasantries. “Thank you, Mrs. Winston. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to tell you how impressed I was by your fund-raising drive for the new wing at the Children’s Hospital.” What was she, Virginia Moore Kendrick, junior reporter for the Arkansas Gazette, doing, sitting on an antique sofa in the governor’s mansion being complimented by the likes of Amanda Crowley Winston? And where was Neil?

  “I must tell you what a refreshing and lovely addition you are to our political scene,” Amanda Winston went on. “With you at his side, Neil should go far. This state senate seat will be only the first of many successes for him. Will you be resigning your position with the newspaper to help him with his campaign?”

  Campaign? Senate seat? Ginnie kept her smile locked in place. Resign? If she had Neil alone right now, she would cheerfully wring his neck. “There have been so many decisions to make that we really haven’t had time to weigh that one yet.”

  “Well, I admire your courage. Establishing a political career can be so taxing, even with a complete commitment by both partners. I know I would resent the time a campaign would take from my personal life.”

  What personal life? Ginnie thought, not letting a trace of bitterness show. The only time they had together they had to schedule, like this evening, or snatch furtively, late at night.

  Another woman, brunette, a little older but not a great deal taller than Ginnie, wearing pastel green with an abundance of ruffles, joined the group. Ginnie searched her memory for that woman’s identity—something —anything—to take her mind off the anger that she felt building. The wife of a congressman? Yes. From the northern part of the state? Heywood? That was it.

  “That is a lovely dress, Mrs. Kendrick.”

  Ginnie directed her smile to the brunette. “Thank you, Mrs. Heywood.”

  “I have to know where you got it. It is so difficult to find petite clothes that don’t make me look like an aging ingenue.”

  The senator’s wife—Barre, was that the name? Ginnie was having difficulty remembering now — yes, Mrs. Barre — laughed delightedly. “Marybeth, ingenue maybe. Aging, never.”

  Gratefully, Ginnie felt the tone of the conversation shifting and the women relaxing around her. It was as though she had been initiated into an elite sorority, and, while she was a new member, a not quite known entity, she was to be accepted. Ginnie did not relax, though. She had been carefully taught her social graces by a strict but loving grandmother, and she now blessed the time she had once thought wasted on learning them.

  She didn’t allow herself to try to relax until after the men returned, until after polite good-nights had been said, until after she and Neil were alone in the privacy of their car, and even then she could not relax.

  Neil remained silent while his mind raced over the avenues that had been opened up to him in that brief, intense and private conversation in the governor’s library. He had suspected something, but not what had been offered — the endorsement of the retiring incumbent, the support of the party and financial backing, for this election, and for a much more important one in the near future. He had the talent and the charisma, they had told him. What he needed was some experience in the arena and a favorable statewide reputation.

  In five years the senior United States senator would retire, and in five years Neil Kendrick would be groomed and ready for Washington. He smiled and let an old dream resurface, a dream he had been sure, until tonight, that the divorce and custody fight and Ann’s needless death had destroyed. A lot of work faced him, but it would be worth it. Well worth it.

  And Ginnie would love Washington—the challenge of getting there, and the challenge of staying there.

  “Ginnie,” he said softly.

  “Mmm?”

  “They want me—”

  “To run for the state senate,” she said emotionlessly.

  He turned to look at her. She sat erect, feet together and flat on the floor, hands tightly clasped o
n the tiny purse in her lap, her shoulders squared, and tension obvious in every inch of her small frame.

  “How — ” He suddenly realized the obvious, that one of the women at the party must have said something. But why the tension?

  “Thanks for keeping me in ignorance,” she said in the same emotionless tone. “How much trouble would it have been to have given me a hint, just a little one, so that I wouldn’t have had to sit there with a smile pasted on my face, pretending that I was in your confidence? Or was it that you didn’t trust me not to run to my editor with the story?”

  He bit back a quick retort at her show of anger, and at her lack of trust. “I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t know myself until tonight.”

  “Oh?” Sarcasm dripped from her, all the more scathing because it was so alien. “How strange. Everyone else seemed to know.”

  “For God’s sake, Ginnie.” She was almost impossible to talk to in one of her moods, and this one showed ominous signs of leading to a real standoff. “I knew something was up. I’m not stupid—”

  “Thank you.”

  He ignored her thrust. “But the support, hell, the suggestion wasn’t even made until we went into the governor’s library tonight.”

  “Oh, yes. Just a cozy little dinner at the governor’s mansion. Nothing elaborate. An every Friday occurrence, Neil?” She plucked at the skirt of the coral silk. “Just any old rag. We’re among friends, people we have so much in common with.”

  Her voice rose. “Who was on display tonight? The candidate? Or the candidate’s wife? Did I use the right fork? Did I laugh at the right jokes? Will I be an asset or a liability? And how did they vote? Discreetly, of course. Perhaps the way they would at an expensive auction? Close one eye for yes, both for no?”