by Delia Parr
She shivered. “Not as rough as the ride home through the storm. Traffic on the Ben Franklin was so slow it was more like a parking lot than a bridge. Where are the girls?”
“Spending the day with their cousins.”
She stopped toweling her hair. “You took them to your brother’s? In this storm?”
He frowned. “Of course not. David called last night, right before supper, remember? He picked up the girls around seven for a sleepover? He’s bringing them back after lunch, or as soon as the storm subsides a bit.”
“Oh. I forgot.”
He stepped behind her and took over toweling her hair. “Tired?”
She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes. “Double tired.”
When she shivered, he wrapped his arms around her. “I’ve got a hot bath drawn and waiting for you upstairs. Why don’t you go on up? I’ll have breakfast ready by the time you’re done.”
She tilted her head back and stared into his eyes. “You really are a man of many talents.”
He grinned. “And I will be happy to remind you of my talents the next time you try to tell me otherwise.” He eased her away. “Now scoot. The bathwater is going to get cold, and I have to check on breakfast before it burns.”
“I won’t be long. I’ll be back down—”
“Up with you.” He pointed to the stairs. “It’s a breakfast-in-bed day. I suppose I forgot to tell you that, so don’t come back down.”
She giggled. “Breakfast in bed? We just got back from vacation, Michael. This is crazy.”
“No, it’s not crazy. It’s a celebration.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “A celebration?”
He laid his hand on top of her tummy. “Yes, a celebration. We could celebrate the fact that we’re blessed to be having another child.”
She nodded. “We could celebrate having a little time alone together.”
The twinkle in his eyes grew brighter. “We could. Then again, we could celebrate the fact that precisely one hour and ten minutes ago, Annie Mitchell, president of The Mitchell Literary Agency called and agreed to represent me. I have an agent, Jenny.”
“Michael!” She threw her arms around his neck.
He hugged her close. “She liked this book. No, she loved this book! She faxed me an agency contract, I signed it and faxed it back. She’s sending my manuscript out by courier to four editors this afternoon. She thinks they’ll all do a weekend read.”
Jenny laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of you. You did it! You really did it!”
He chuckled. “I haven’t sold the book yet,” he cautioned, “but this is really a big step in that direction.”
“But you’ll know soon. If one of the editors likes your book, you’ll know Monday. You could sell the book by Monday, right?”
“Or not.” He set her back and kissed her forehead. “I’m taking us all away for the weekend. Don’t ask where. It’s a surprise. I don’t even want to think about what could or could not happen next week because that’s not real. Not yet anyway. Getting an agent to represent my book? That’s real. But having my family? That’s a true blessing, and that’s what we’ll celebrate this weekend!”
“Yes, we will,” she murmured. With a prayer in her heart that Michael might actually have his dream of becoming a published author come true, she held him tight, even as her own dream of becoming a stay-at-home mom took one step closer to becoming true as well. In the depths of her heart, however, fear nudged at her joy—fear that cancer might one day claim the life Jenny and Michael shared together.
Madge raced up the staircase, following the trail Russell had left on the cream carpet. She found him in the guest room across the hall from the master bedroom. He was tucking his little girl into the antique iron bed that had once belonged to Madge’s Grandmother Poore.
Standing in the doorway, her heart trembled with anguish as she watched Russell tucking his child into bed. His daughter. Sarah was his daughter. She was another woman’s child, and she was here, in Madge’s home.
Madge did not want to look at this child any more than she wanted the girl to exist. But Sarah did exist. She was still fast asleep as Russell knelt by the side of the bed and struggled to untangle the blankets wrapped around her.
Madge’s eyes misted with tears. Sarah was just a wisp of a thing. Blond ringlets, damp from the rain or from sleeping within a cocoon of covers, framed her heart-shaped face. She stirred and whimpered a bit when Russell settled her head on the pillow, but her lips never lost their grip on her thumb. As soon as he pulled the quilt up to her chin, Sarah curled onto her side, facing Madge, and started sucking on her thumb.
Such an innocent lamb.
Madge’s heart ached when Russell pressed a kiss to his daughter’s forehead, and she couldn’t control her curiosity. Had Sarah been conceived in one rare moment when Russell had been too weak to resist the temptation of sin? Or had this child been born to Russell and another woman he had been seeing for…how long? Several years, at least, if Sarah was three years old.
Who was the woman who had been Sarah’s mother?
Who was this man, the man who had been Madge’s husband for all these years?
Reeling from questions that had no answers, she watched him as he pressed his forehead to the pillow next to his daughter. When his shoulders trembled and she heard him choke back his sobs, she sagged against the frame of the door.
He loved this little girl.
Madge had thought he had loved her, too, and his betrayal and the vision of the evidence of his betrayal sliced through her, opening a wound in her heart that she knew would never heal, not in this lifetime.
In that moment, watching her husband kneeling next to his love child, the world she had known crashed and shattered into pieces: The marriage she had treasured for twenty-six years? Gone. The vows they had taken, pledging devotion and forsaking all others? Broken. The husband she had loved? A traitor. The life they had shared together? An illusion.
When images of their sons flashed in her mind, Madge clenched her jaw to silence a moan. How could she tell Drew and Brett their father had been unfaithful? Or that he had brought his love child home?
Tears welled and streamed down her cheeks. Her heart hurt. How could Russell have done this to her and to their sons?
Another image flashed through her mind, a premonition of days to come. Like the storm outside that carried rain and destruction with every gust of wind, news of Russell’s infidelity would spread throughout the community. Welleswood’s favorite adopted son would be branded with shame and scandal. And so would she.
Welleswood was a small town. It was Madge’s home-town. Her family had lived here for four generations. Her roots were deep, but this nightmare would strangle every aspect of her life here until she had nothing left. And what about Jenny and Andrea? They could be tainted by this scandal, too, simply because they were her sisters!
Madge pressed her fist to her mouth. Too late. Wrapped in anguish, her sobs tore free and echoed in the room. Her soul cried out in pain. Her spirit yearned for justice.
Oh, God. Why have You forsaken me?
Russell stood up and walked toward her.
She backed into the hallway.
He came out of the room and closed the door behind him. “Please. Let me explain—”
“Explain? Explain what? That you’ve betrayed me? That you’ve broken your vows? I can see that.” With tears streaming down her face, she pointed to the door. “The proof is in that room. The evidence against you is here in my home.”
He blanched. “She’s my daughter.”
“Yes, she’s your daughter, but she’s another woman’s daughter, not mine,” Madge whispered. “What kind of woman takes another woman’s husband and bears his child? Tell me, Russell. Was she a fling? Was she a…a prostitute? Or was she a woman who deliberately tried to trap you by getting pregnant?”
He shook his head. Fresh tears began to fall down his ch
eeks, which were darkened by several days’ stubble and stained from tears he had already spent. “She wasn’t like that,” he murmured.
Madge stared at him, refusing to make it easy, refusing to back down.
Russell dropped his gaze to the floor and twisted the wedding ring he had worn since their wedding day. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were steady yet filled with remorse. “Stacy was a good woman. She was Sarah’s mother, and she was a good mother.” He drew in a long, deep breath. “She was also my wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Madge could not keep the incredulous giggles from bubbling out. “Your wife? Did you say this woman was your wife? That’s…ridiculous. I’m your wife, and I’ve been your wife for twenty-six years.”
A horrific possibility grabbed her by the throat and made it nearly impossible for her to ask him if it was true. “Unless…unless you weren’t free when you married me. Is that it, Russell? Is our marriage even valid? Were you single when we got married or are you trying to tell me—”
Disbelief flashed through his eyes. “Of course I was.” Shivering, he brushed back several strands of damp hair from his forehead, pulled his wet shirt away from his torso and glanced back at the door behind him. “I need to get into some dry clothes, and I sure could use some coffee to warm up. Maybe we should talk about this downstairs in the kitchen? This isn’t something we can settle in a few minutes,” he whispered.
Her mouth dropped open. “I’m not even sure I want to be in the same house with you, let alone sit across from you at a table in the same room. Not until I get an explanation!” She gritted her words through clenched teeth and managed to keep her voice low to keep from waking Sarah. The last thing Madge wanted was a distraction or an interruption that would prevent Russell from giving her a full explanation.
Now.
“I’ll forget the dry clothes, then. At least go downstairs with me.”
When he tried to take her arm, she yanked away and caught another glimpse of her soiled hallway carpet. “Get changed while I make some coffee. You’ve already tracked up enough of the house.”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’ll need,” he promised.
She nodded and swallowed hard. Five minutes or fifty minutes from now would not make much difference. Her life had already been ruined. When he went into the bedroom and closed the door, she turned and followed the muddy footprints back downstairs. To her surprise, questions were not peppering her mind. She felt hollow. Her senses were numb. Her emotions lay frozen deep inside of her, beneath a brittle but protective shell that allowed her to function…until she started across the foyer, looked into the living room and saw the tube of conditioner lying next to her purse on the chair. She braced to a sudden halt, slipped on a puddle of water and slammed to the tiled floor. She landed hard on her knees and scraped the heels of both hands. Pain jolted through her body and cracked the shell that had kept her in shock. Tears sprang and gushed from her eyes.
Gasping, she leaned back on her haunches and wrapped her arms about her waist. “Andrea! I forgot all about Andrea.” She groaned and tucked her chin to her chest. By now, Andrea had no doubt gone to her doctor’s appointment alone, and she had probably been late, too.
Madge sighed. The thought that she had completely forgotten about her sister and let her sister down was yet another blow to her bruised and battered spirit. The mere possibility that Andrea might stop on her way home to make sure Madge was okay or to find out why Madge had not even bothered to call to let her know she would not be able to take her to the doctor’s nearly crippled her. Panic, however, pumped new fear through her veins.
She could not see Andrea right now. She could not talk to her right now, either.
Scrambling back to her feet. What to do? What to do first? Secure the chain on the front door. Andrea had a key. Madge skirted the puddles of water and put the security chain back into place. Then she remembered that Andrea had to go straight home from getting the chemo for “rolling time,” which meant she should not be stopping by.
Good. What next? The telephone? No problem there. Madge did not have to take Andrea’s call. She had an answering service. She had voice mail on her cell phone, too. Her cell phone! She raced back to the living room to her purse, pulled out her cell phone, sighed and slipped it back inside. She had not remembered to turn it on before packing it into her purse earlier. Sometimes being a little forgetful was not a bad thing.
Cornered, she went to the telephone in the kitchen and lifted the receiver. When she heard a series of rapid beeps, her heart started pounding. She retrieved the message and heard Andrea’s voice:
“Madge? This is Andrea. I’m leaving for the doctor’s office. I’ll call you when I get back.”
Madge sighed and hung up the telephone. At least Andrea had not sounded too awfully upset with her.
Eventually, however, if she did not return Andrea’s call, Andrea would worry and drive over. Once she saw Madge’s car in the driveway, as well as Russell’s, she would not stop banging on the door until one of them answered and reassured her nothing was terribly wrong. Terribly wrong? That might be the understatement of Madge’s life, at least at this moment.
She closed the living-room drapes to keep the outside world from looking in, at least temporarily, and went to the kitchen where she made a quick call to Andrea’s home and left an apology in a brief message explaining about Russell being ill and coming home unexpectedly. She made a fresh pot of coffee and set the table with lavender place mats and matching pedestal mugs. After she poured the French vanilla creamer that Russell loved into a pitcher, she set it alongside the sugar bowl.
When she finished, she stood with her back to the sink and leaned against the counter for support. The smell of fresh-brewing coffee and the sight of the table set for two presented a vision of domesticity and marital bliss and held an aura of intimacy that poured salt into the gaping wounds in her heart. Abruptly, she turned away and faced the window, but she could not escape the sting of Russell’s betrayal. Sobs tore through her throat. Tears blurred her vision. Like the torrential rain cascading down the window glass, her tears washed the salt from her wounds and helped to clear the debris of guilt littering her thoughts.
She had not done anything to destroy her marriage. She had not broken her vows. She had not been unfaithful. She was entitled to know why her husband had done this to her. To himself. To them.
Madge dried her tears with a tea towel and straightened the gold chain that had tangled about her neck. Overhead, she heard Russell pulling open dresser drawers, then the sound of water. He was taking a shower. With shoulders squared, she took a deep breath, marched to Russell’s seat at the head of the table and sat down to wait for him.
She folded and unfolded her hands. She tapped her foot, but she refused to let the questions that demanded answers take root. She wanted a very clear mind when he finally appeared. She checked the clock. “You said five minutes, not fifteen,” she grumbled. She listened hard, but she could not hear the shower. She could not even hear him moving around anymore.
A chill trickled up her spine, and she knew without looking up that she was being watched. She turned in her seat to face the doorway, ready to confront him for sneaking downstairs and observing her without letting her know he was there.
The reprimand died on Madge’s lips.
Little Sarah was standing within the frame of the doorway, a picture of sweet innocence if one ever existed. Her eyes were the color of the summer bluebells that grew wild in the garden. Her blond ringlets were still damp and curled around her face. With her rosy cheeks, rosebud mouth and porcelain skin, she would have looked like a china doll if it weren’t for the frown and the rumpled denim overalls she wore. She was staring right at Madge, and her eyes were wide with interest.
Madge’s first instinct was to pick up the little waif and give her a big hug. She resisted. Sarah was not an orphan. She still had her father. “Your name is Sarah, isn’t it?”
She bobbed her head. “Poppy seepin’.”
“Poppy? You mean your daddy?”
Another nod.
“He’s sleeping?” Madge asked, certain the little girl was mistaken. Russell could not be asleep. Not at a time like this. Even if he were asleep, she doubted Sarah could manage turning the knob and opening the door to the bedroom. She must have thought he was asleep because she had been sleeping.
“Poppy seepin’ in bed.”
“Oh, dear. No darlin’.” Madge got up from her chair, walked over to the little girl and knelt down to eye level. “Your daddy isn’t sleeping. He’s just changing. He got all wet in the rain. How did you ever manage to get down here all by yourself without falling down the steps?”
Sarah tugged on Madge’s hand. “Find Baby.”
“Baby? Did you lose your baby?” Madge asked. She did not remember seeing a baby doll anywhere. She had watched Russell unwrap the covers around Sarah earlier when he had tucked her into bed. If he had found her baby doll, he would have put it in the bed with her, if only to make her feel more at home when she woke up in a strange bed in a strange room in a strange house.
“Find Baby,” Sarah insisted.
She was more determined than upset, judging by the set of her shoulders and the twinkle of stubbornness in her eyes. Good. The last thing Madge needed was an inconsolable child on her hands. She brushed a ringlet from Sarah’s forehead. “Did you have your baby in the car? Daddy probably left it there. We’ll have Daddy go outside and get it for you as soon as he gets downstairs,” she crooned.
The little girl’s blue eyes glistened with tears. “Find Baby. Baby hungwy.”
Madge smiled. “You must be hungry, too. How about we get you something to eat, and when Daddy comes downstairs—”
“Poppy seepin’. Find Baby,” she wailed. She scrunched her little face, flushed scarlet, and began to shed tears the size of marbles.
Madge scooped the toddler up into her arms, but Sarah pushed and struggled to get down and cried harder. “Hush now. I’ll…I’ll get the baby for you. Don’t cry.”
