Commitments

by Barbara Delinsky

  She was all style and class. Everything about her—clothes, jewelry, makeup—was understated and very obviously of fine quality. The difference between her and the other visitors in that room had been ludicrous.

  She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t belong here. But God, she’d looked lovely. Tired, perhaps, and tense, but he’d seen all that before. She’d still been lovely. And he ached for her as he hadn’t ached for a woman in months and months, which was absurd. This woman was as off-limits as any woman could get.

  Item one, she had problems. She had a child who needed every last bit of her love and attention. And she had a husband—not just any husband, but one who had a fair amount of prestige and power. Derek wasn’t sure where she found the strength to contribute to that particular relationship once she’d finished taking care of her son, but that wasn’t his worry. The fact was, she was married and married well.

  Item two, he had problems. He was a man standing at the crossroads of life, looking down one bleak path after another. He was in prison, stuck there for at least another nine months and beyond that at the whim of the parole board. He was a man with talent and no place to use it, if the grim predictions of his agent were to prove correct. And he was from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Lord, how he’d fought that. He’d left home at eighteen, on the day of his high school graduation, and he’d been determined to put as much distance between himself and his past as possible. He’d enlisted in the Marines, done a stint in Vietnam and been thoroughly disillusioned. But he’d been in too much of a rush to take the time to protest the killing and maiming of innocent people. If gaining distance from his roots was his goal, he had too far to go to dally.

  He enrolled in college, earned a degree in political science, then one in communications. Long before graduation, he was delivering on-the-hour middle-of-the-night news summaries at a local radio station. From there, he made a steady climb. He bounced from city to city, which was fine since he loved travel and adventure; but more important, each move meant a job that was one step up the ladder.

  At the age of thirty-five he was named one of the three principal correspondents on Outside Insight. That had been four years ago. The sense of triumph he’d felt then had been incredible. He’d made it. He’d hit the big time in a big way. An honest way. A lawful, respected way.

  That was one of the things that hurt most now—it had been a goddamned waste of time and effort. He’d worked his tail off all those years. He’d earned each and every promotion. He’d paid his taxes on time and in full. He’d been the yo-yo to return the extra ten dollars that the supermarket clerk had mistakenly given him in change.

  Legally he’d gone by the book. And still he’d been screwed. He was right back where he started—no, worse, because now he wore the stigma firsthand.

  Why in the hell would Sabrina Stone want to have anything to do with him? Warmth and understanding, she’d said. Apparently her husband didn’t provide those, but Derek could have guessed that months before. After that day on her terrace, he’d studied each story, scrutinized each picture of Nicholas Stone. A few of those photos had included Sabrina, and in those Nicholas had always been a step ahead of her, with his face to the flash and his eyes on the world.

  So Sabrina was in need. But she was beautiful and intelligent. She was wealthy. She was Society. If it was warmth she needed, she could surely find it in dozens of willing and suitable pairs of arms. She didn’t need to go slumming.

  Which brought him back to square one. Why in the hell had she come?

  Someone had sent her to drive him mad. That was all there was to it. It was psychological torture, pure and simple.

  Annoyed and frustrated, he rolled to his side. The cot creaked. He heard the distant sound of the guards’ footsteps and automatically began to count. Five paces, stop, search. Five paces, stop, search. The footsteps grew nearer, louder. He was fully prepared when a beam of light searched his cell, then searched his face, then left.

  He lay quietly, listening to the footsteps systematically recede. He inhaled, exhaled; he counted the beats of his heart. He closed his eyes and pictured nothingness. He concentrated on nothingness. He tried to make his mind mirror nothingness. It usually worked, but it didn’t now.

  She was still with him.

  Abruptly he was up, sitting on the edge of the cot. He flexed his fingers, alternately extending them and curling them into fists. He wanted to touch—suede, leather, mohair, skin—woman’s skin, Sabrina’s skin. Since he couldn’t, he thrust an impatient handful of fingers through his dark hair and swore under his breath. He hadn’t thought prison could get worse, but it had today. He’d been aware of intellectual stagnation and emotional vegetation. But sensual deprivation had only hit him now.

  Bolting upright, he began to pace. He padded to the bars, wrapped his fingers around them for a minute, tamed, strode to the rear wall of the cell, turned, strode forward again.

  Sabrina had been telling the truth about why she’d come. He knew it in his gut, knew it with a confidence that increased with each oblong he paced. She wanted comfort. She really did.

  That told him something. She’d felt it, too, the rapport on the day they’d met. She was reacting to it at some level, though how conscious the level was he just didn’t know. He did know that every one of his reasons for steering clear of her was valid.

  And still he wanted her.

  Which was why he felt so alone.

  And why he couldn’t possibly let her come again.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, he came closer to death than he cared to come. Acting on impulse, he violated a basic rule of penitentiary self-preservation: He tried to break up a fight between two other inmates. The incident was in the shower room. There was no clothing to blunt the blow when a razor blade connected with his neck. Had it been an inch farther forward, it would have severed the jugular.

  His skin was stitched and by evening he was back in his cell, but the throbbing kept him awake for much of the night. The next morning, he penned a brief note, sealed it in an envelope and dropped it in the prisoners’ mail slot.

  Chapter 3

  SABRINA FELT like death warmed over. She’d had the flu for three days running, and it showed no sign of letting up. When she sat up, she got dizzy. She couldn’t hold down food. And she was very hot. Or very cold.

  She tried to take care of Nicky, but it was impossible. She’d make it to her feet long enough to change his diapers, then collapse back with him onto the bed. He’d cry. She’d gather her strength. Then she’d try again, this time to feed him, but she’d end up in the bathroom, retching. He’d cry. She’d have that much less strength left to gather.

  Mrs. Hoskins kept to herself. She went about her business unobtrusively, as was her way. Sabrina had liked it that way when she first married Nick and inherited Mrs. Hoskins in the bargain. The housekeeper knew just what she was supposed to do around the house, and she did it. Unfortunately, she did nothing extra. Sabrina could appreciate Mrs. Hoskins’ back problem, but there were times soon after the flu hit when she wondered how the woman could not offer to help, given the obvious way Sabrina was struggling.

  And Sabrina couldn’t ask. Nor could she command; it wasn’t her way. And though her pride was tattered, she still had a bit; she wouldn’t give Mrs. Hoskins the satisfaction of hearing her beg.

  The only thing that enabled her to make it through the first day was the conviction that she’d be better by the next. But the next was just as bad. Even Nicholas agreed, albeit grudgingly, that she needed help. So they hired a day worker, and though the woman, Doreen, was slow, she was sweet.

  That was more than Sabrina could say for her husband. Forget the sweet nothings he might have done to make her feel better—the flowers he might have brought her, the cup of tea, the back rub. She could live without those—God knew she had, for months and months anyway. But she firmly believed Nicholas could have taken a day off from work to care for his son. That hadn’t occurre
d to him, or if it had, he thought himself above the task. Either that, or he’d been intimidated: Nicky’s peculiarities were enough to try a saint, and Nicholas was no saint.

  He was barely even human when he strode into the bedroom on the fourth night, sat down in a huff on the chintz-covered chaise to unlace his shoes and began to complain. “Dinner isn’t ready. Can you believe that? I’m supposed to play handball in an hour, and dinner isn’t ready! Mrs. Hoskins says that Doreen is monopolizing the kitchen.”

  “She’s feeding Nicky,” was Sabrina’s muffled response. Her face was half-buried in the pillow. She didn’t have the strength to move.

  He tossed one shoe in the direction of the closet. “When you feed Nicky, I get dinner on time.”

  “I’m efficient.”

  “I don’t see what the problem is. How can dinner for one three-year-old be such an effort?” The second shoe followed the first. He stood and unfastened his trousers.

  Sabrina tugged the blankets more tightly to her stomach. The pressure felt good. “Everything has to be strained. He still hates it.”

  “So don’t strain the food.”

  “He’ll choke.”

  “If he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat.”

  She didn’t bother to answer. That seemed to goad Nicholas on.

  “If you weren’t lying around in bed, this wouldn’t happen. How long do you plan on being sick?”

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  “Other people have the flu,” he said. “They’re sick for a day, maybe two, then they’re back to normal. Not you. It’s been four days. Are you enjoying the vacation?”

  She managed a weak, “You’re nuts.”

  “Not me. Maybe you. Maybe your flu is psychosomatic, Sabrina. Have you stopped to consider that possibility?”

  “Please, Nick.”

  “I’m serious,” he said. He was standing in his underwear, with his hands cocked on his hips. “It’s clear that Nicky is a problem for you. You’ve had trouble with him from the start. What better way to get time off than to be sick?”

  Sabrina continued to stare. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that Nicholas was an attractive man. He was of average height, nicely built. His features were blue-blooded, and rightly so—given the presence of two marquises and a duke several branches up and over in his family tree. His skin was lightly tanned and firm of tone; even with more gray than brown in his hair, he looked younger than his forty-three years. And he held himself well. Confidently. Arrogantly. Even in his underwear.

  But all that was somewhere in the back of her mind. At the moment, and at more moments than she cared to count of late, Sabrina found him offensive.

  “I can guarantee you, Nicholas, that I don’t choose to be sick. I lie here feeling guilty for everything I should be doing but can’t do. Doreen barges in with questions, and Nicky has been fussier than usual. It’s not much of a vacation. And yes, you’re right, Nicky’s been a problem from the start. He is severely and multiply handicapped.”

  “Baloney.”

  “Where’ve you been, Nick? Haven’t you heard a word the doctors said?”

  “They’ve said that his development is delayed. He’s just slow. That’s all. He’ll catch up in his own good time.”

  “That’s not what the doctors say.”

  “They don’t know what to say.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes. The child needs time and discipline. And he needs to be with other children. You isolate him, Sabrina. He should be in a play group. He needs to be with normal children his age. If he could see what they’re doing—”

  “My God, Nick!” Sabrina cried. A fine wire of frustration snapped inside her. In a burst of angry energy, she sat up. “Nicky is three years old and he can barely hold up his head. He can’t sit. He can’t crawl. He can’t hold things or feed himself or talk. What in the devil is he going to do in a play group?” She was shaking all over, but she couldn’t stop the words. “What in the devil is a play group going to do with him? Children can be cruel, Nick. They don’t mean to be, but they are. You won’t be the one who suffers when they stand around, pointing and giggling at him. Maybe they’ll use him as a beanball target. That’d be—”

  “That’s enough!”

  “It’s not! Face facts, Nick!”

  “You’re getting hysterical.”

  She was on her knees on the bed, swaying slightly but keeping her eyes on her husband. “Hysterical? Me? What cause would I have for hysterics? I’ve only spent three years in nonstop hell trying to deal with a child who is severely retarded—”

  “Sabrina—”

  “And I’ve had no help from you, Nick! You’re too busy to lend a hand in the everyday care. You object when I want to see a new doctor or try a different training program. You fight me every step of the way. You deny that there’s a problem. Well, there is a problem. And I’ll tell you something else. Maybe the reason I can’t shake this flu is because I’ve gotten run down trying to cope with the reality of Nicky and the reality of you and the reality of me … if there is a me anymore. I sometimes wonder about that. I was a writer when I married you. What am I now?”

  “A mother!” Nicholas snapped. He was pulling on his sweat suit as quickly as possible. “That was what you wanted to be. Why are you complaining?”

  “Because Nicky isn’t just another child!”

  “You can’t custom-order kids, Sabrina. You can’t check off the traits you want them to have and expect that you’ll get your every wish. So Nicky is high-strung. So he’s fussy—”

  “He’s a godawful wretch most of the time! I love him to pieces, but there are times when I can’t stand him. He needs help. I need help. It’s getting worse and it’ll continue to get worse. He’ll just get bigger. That’s all, Nick. Just bigger.”

  Nicholas was back on the chaise, this time tugging on his sneakers. “My God, you’re a bitch.”

  “I’m a realist. I can’t handle this, Nick. I can’t take the constant tension and worry. I can’t take the physical strain, day in, day out. It’s not what I want.”

  “I’m leaving,” he said coolly, heading for the door. “I’ll be back by eleven.”

  “You can close your eyes to it, Nick, but it won’t go away. We have to do something. You may have your life, but mine’s falling apart. There’s nothing left of our marriage. We barely see each other, and when we do, we argue. I have no career, no social life. Every ounce of my strength is committed to Nicky, and it does no good. I can love him until I’m blue in the face, but he isn’t ever going to be normal. It’s only a matter of time before we have to think about putting him in an institution—”

  The bedroom door slammed, blotting out the loathsome word. Sabrina continued to kneel on the bed. Her breathing was shallow. Sweat beaded on her upper lip; her nightgown was damp. After a minute, she staggered from the bed and made it to the bathroom just in time to lose the tea and crackers she’d eaten so gingerly an hour before. Then, not caring whether it was the wisest thing to do, she turned on the shower. She wedged herself in a corner, slid down until she was sitting with her knees tucked to her chest and let the tepid spray course over her.

  Once out of the shower, she couldn’t make it back to bed fast enough. She pulled the blankets to her neck because, though her skin burned, she had the chills. Her limbs ached. Her insides were raw. She felt miserable—but the more she concentrated on her misery, the less she had to think about the argument with Nick. So she concentrated on her misery.

  In time, other thoughts intruded, and when she’d stopped quaking quite so badly, she freed one arm from the covers and reached back for the book she’d left on the headboard shelf. She opened to the place where page 209 met page 210, removed the plain white envelope she’d tucked there, then set the book aside.

  For a time she just lay, tucked beneath layers of blankets, looking at the envelope. The average eye would find nothing distinctive about it, but Sabrina’s was not the average eye. She saw th
at the envelope had no return address, and assumed that was by design. It was metered, rather than stamped, which she assumed to be regulation, and the postmark, reading Parkersville, MA, was dated three weeks before, which was just about how long it had been since she’d received it.

  For what had to be the hundredth time, she removed a single sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it and read its brief message.

  “Thursdays are fine. D.”

  Closing her eyes, she pressed the letter and its envelope to her breast.

  By the next day, she was feeling better. Doreen was staying on for another day, so she napped. She took a leisurely bath, then napped some more. She was feeling more composed than usual when, late that afternoon, her mother phoned.

  Sabrina had never quite figured out whether her mother’s otherworldliness had preceded her profession, or vice versa. Amanda Monroe was like a character from one of her books. Petite, almost waiflike, she was a sprite who’d reached her mid-fifties with few of the usual signs of life’s wear and tear. Her skin was smooth and porcelain-like. Her hair was long and blond. There was a fluidity to her walk, a lyricism to her talk. And when she smiled, she sparkled.

  She had an ethereal quality that made people stop, look once, then again, then approach her with caution lest they cause her harm. It was really quite ironic, because the woman was strong. She looked as if she could splinter apart and disperse with the breeze, but the fact was, she had an iron constitution and a will of steel. In her soft, shimmering way she was a controller. She choreographed those around her; they danced to her tune.

  Every five years and ten books or so, she created a new galaxy to explore. Her fans loved it. Her family hated it. Her husband, who was nearly as eccentric as she and had an ego the size of Texas, to boot, had long ago decided that no way was the Old West going to shrivel in the shadow of the Vaspatian moons. He had gallantly deeded the spacious San Francisco townhouse to his wife, bought a ranch in Nevada and moved there lock, stock and barrel. He returned to the Coast periodically, the bounty hunter returning to his woman, but it was clear that he had no wish to wipe the range dust from his boots.