A Mother's Vow

by Ken Casper

  “Tea is fine.”

  Her knees felt watery as she removed a pitcher from the refrigerator and poured tea into tall glasses filled with ice. He declined the offer of sugar but accepted a wedge of lime. They wandered into the living room, which was now shrouded in growing darkness. Catherine switched on the table lamp beside a club chair. It had a stained-glass shade and a bronze base. Tiffany? He didn’t know. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would have selected for his own place, but in the context of this room, he decided he liked it.

  “This is an interesting house.”

  She chuckled and settled into an easy chair after turning on another light. “Interesting is a word people use when they don’t like something but are too diplomatic to say so.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Not in this case. I do like it. Reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture.”

  This time she was the one to raise a brow. “Not many people recognize the similarity.”

  “It wasn’t built by him?”

  “Jordan designed it. He considered going into architecture at one time.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  She laughed, and Jeff realized it was the first time he’d heard her do so with genuine, relaxed amusement. He liked the sound and wanted to hear more of it.

  “He hated math,” she said.

  He grinned in return. “I can see how that could be a problem.” Reluctantly breaking eye contact, he surveyed the room, its straight lines, the modest, almost inconspicuous ornamentation that lent an air of grace and dignity without drawing attention. “I like his tastes.”

  Over the rim of her glass she studied him before taking a sip. “The two of you would have gotten along very well.” She spread her elbows on the arms of the chair, the glass held with both hands in front of her. “I’m sorry you never met him—or he you.”

  Jeff sensed sincerity in her statement. In most of the successful marriages he’d observed, starry-eyed love gradually morphed into a kind of comfort zone. In the case of Catherine and Jordan, he had the feeling the romance had never faded, making them very lucky, and her plight all the more tragic. In spite of her loss, her sorrow, he envied her experiencing something he’d only dreamed about.

  Restless, she climbed to her feet and stood in front of the picture window overlooking the shadowy garden, the melancholy on her face reflected in the glass.

  “I have to admit I didn’t particularly care for this house at first,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

  “Why is that?”

  “Unfamiliarity more than anything else. The home I grew up in was very traditional. Soft lines. Rounded corners. Superfluous frills. This seemed austere by comparison.”

  “But you like it now?”

  She nodded. “In my mother’s house, a potted plant was just another item cluttering up a room. Here each item of furniture has individuality, its own personality, and a simple bouquet becomes a showpiece because it doesn’t have to compete with imitations of nature.”

  Jeff realized that the decor which was essentially masculine in its straight lines and uncompromising angles actually favored a woman because it emphasized her femininity and grace.

  He rose and went to her. Relieving her of the sweaty glass, he placed it on the white marble windowsill, then turned her to face him, his hands holding hers.

  “He was a lucky man.”

  Her features crumbled, and she leaned into him. He had no choice but to put his arms around her. To comfort and offer solace. But that wasn’t what he was feeling. He was too aware of her body touching his, of her muffled sobs against his chest.

  He stroked her back. The warmth of her skin under the thin cotton blouse sent heat rushing through him. On a hiccough, she eased away.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That’s the second time I’ve done that. You must think I’m a hysterical old woman.”

  He inhaled her scent, buried his nose in her hair. “Neither hysterical, nor old,” he murmured, “But definitely a woman.”

  She tightened her grip on him.

  “We all need a shoulder to lean on from time to time,” he said. “Mine is available whenever you want it.”

  She tilted her head up, gazed at him with a bittersweet smile.

  They stood together, belly to belly, breasts to chest. No tears this time, just an exchange of body heat.

  He brought his mouth down to hers and softly kissed her. They remained still, their lips touching, each aware of the other’s breathlessness. The moment lingered. He broke off but didn’t separate himself from her. Their eyes locked. Hers were full of uncertainty and what he could only describe as longing. She raised her hands and draped them on his shoulders. He kissed her again. His tongue made contact with her lips. She parted them. He entered. She retreated, only to reestablish that tingle of intimacy again an instant later. As if by mutual understanding he withdrew. They separated.

  The minute that followed was filled with silence. Jeff waited for her to ask him to leave. She didn’t. He considered apologizing, but he wasn’t sorry, and she didn’t seem upset as much as confused. He was, too. He hadn’t come to Catherine Tanner’s house with the intention of kissing her. He wished the phone would ring or someone would come to the door. Anything to break the writhing tension between them.

  “Will you call me tomorrow?” she finally asked in a voice that was soft, self-conscious. “And give me a progress report on your investigation?”

  “I’ll call you every day,” he promised, “even if the only thing I have to say is that there’s no news.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d better get going.” He turned toward the front of the house. “I still have a lot to do.”

  They searched for something more to say, but nothing came. With mutual nods of farewell, she let him out the front door. The latch snicked closed behind him. A line had been crossed. The question was how far over it he dared go.

  JEFF DROVE HOME in a trance. He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t seriously entertained fantasies of their relationship rising above the professional. That he found her attractive was nothing more than the normal male reaction to a striking woman. Or so he tried to convince himself. Which brought up the question of what exactly there was about her that he found so alluring. She wasn’t stunning in her beauty, not in the classic sense. She had charm and dignity, but those were hardly qualities that aroused a man’s passions. Something did, because his libido was on high alert.

  She was in her midforties, six years older than he. The age difference should be a turn-off, men were supposed to prefer their women younger. But of course there was nothing conventional about this situation. She was the chief of police in a city of nearly two million. He was the ex-cop she’d fired from the force. No, there was nothing conventional about any of it.

  “I should have turned down this job,” he muttered to himself. Instead, he’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back.

  He stopped for a red light and for the first time in years wished he had a cigarette. Seeing the smoke curl around him would suit his mood right now and match the state of his thinking. Cloudy. Hazy. Amorphous.

  The signal turned green. He pressed on the accelerator and was content to conform to the speed limit. His thoughts wandered, straining to find stability.

  He pulled into his driveway, hit the automatic garage-door opener. The house was dark but for the light he always left on over the sink in the kitchen. He could barely remember the days when he came home to a wife waiting for him, maybe because that episode had been so brief.

  He got out a frozen dinner and popped it into the microwave while he went out to the mailbox and gathered the day’s delivery. Mostly junk. Somehow he’d gotten on a Victoria’s Secret mailing list and was receiving their catalogues. Not looking at it was impossible.

  Flipping it open, his eye caught a black lace chemise, the spaghetti straps of the low-cut top exposing the model’s tantalizing cleavage. His mind flashed to a fantasy of Catherine wearing
it, her full breasts caged in the delicate web of filigree. He slammed the magazine shut. What he needed was a cold shower.

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  “HEY, GIRL, you missed our date last time. You going to be able to make it today?”

  Catherine gripped the phone and stared at the calendar on her desk. She and her sister-in-law got together for lunch every third Thursday of the month. Today. Her docket was full, but Annette had left that hour and a half open. Last month Catherine had cancelled their date to call a special meeting of Internal Affairs to deal with the recent arrest of a cop in a drug-dealing sting. Reporters had somehow gotten wind of the news before the dirty cop had even arrived at the station house for booking. She’d gone through the motions of warning those connected with the case of the dire consequences for anyone caught leaking information to the public, but the threat was hollow. The culprit, a friend of Eddie Fontanero’s, was covering his tracks and the press would never give up its source.

  “So far, so good,” Catherine answered. “I picked last time, even though I stood you up. So today you choose the place.”

  Melissa’s rich voice held a note of humor. “How about the Cheesecake Factory.”

  Catherine groaned. “You’re putting temptation in my way, girl, endangering my very soul, or at least my waistline.”

  The other woman laughed. “’I’ve sometimes thought the purpose of hellfire was to try to get the grins off the faces of the damned.”

  “You’re evil.”

  Melissa snickered. “Twelve-thirty or I’ll start without you.” She hung up.

  Annette buzzed Catherine to remind her she had a meeting with the Family Violence Unit in five minutes to review procedures for removing children from abusive situations. That would be followed by one with representatives of the Junior Chamber of Commerce to discuss how to protect small businesses from vandalism.

  “Is my lunch slot still open?”

  “So far,” her administrative assistant said.

  “Keep it that way.”

  Of all the adult members of the Tanner family, Catherine was most comfortable with Tyrone’s wife and the mother of his three children. Melissa was a Creole from nearby Louisiana. Tall, willowy, beautiful and sophisticated, she tended to revert to the patois of the bayou when she got excited—to the amusement of her husband and the raised eyebrows of her in-laws.

  Catherine arrived at the Galleria five minutes ahead of schedule! By the time she had parked and crossed to the mall entrance where the Cheesecake Factory was located, she was running five minutes late. She mounted the stairs to the restaurant’s second floor and found Melissa waiting near the maitre d’s podium. A bright smile spread across her face when she saw Catherine.

  “You made it, and right on time, too.” She gave Catherine a sisterly hug.

  As always, Melissa was dressed to the nines. She’d been a model when she met Tyrone and still worked hard at maintaining her figure. Her dark complexion was youthful and flawless. Her short-cropped hair was mahogany rather than black and, like Kelsey’s, glowed with titian overtones. Today she wore a beltless burgundy and teal knee-length dress that accentuated her slender frame. The rings on her fingers sparkled with diamonds and precious gems. Following behind her, Catherine noted, not for the first time, that she was almost too slim, bordering on anorexic.

  They sat in a booth across from each other.

  “I know you’ve been busy,” Melissa said after the hostess presented them with menus and departed, “but how are you, really?”

  “I’m fine,” Catherine assured her.

  “You taking care of yourself? You look tired.”

  “Work.” It accounted for some of her sleepless nights, though not last night. She’d tossed and turned, plagued with memories of Jeff kissing her. The first man, other than Jordan, to do so in twenty-five years. It was a strange sensation. Stirring and a little frightening.

  Melissa tilted her head and studied her more astutely. “There’s something different about you,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “A hint of the old enthusiasm. I’m glad. This has been such a horrible year. In your place I doubt I could have survived.”

  Catherine didn’t want to probe too deeply into the possible reason for her newfound joy, if that’s what it was. “And you look fabulous.”

  Melissa appreciated compliments and accepted them with grace, but it seemed to Catherine there was a perpetual melancholy in her eyes, as if she recognized that stringent dieting and daily workouts weren’t sufficient to keep her husband faithful. She laughed. “The big four-oh is quickly approaching and it scares the hell out of me.”

  Catherine snickered. “Having passed that point, I can tell you it’s all in your head. I don’t feel a day over thirty-nine. Besides, Jordan reminded me regularly that life begins at forty.”

  Melissa snorted. “He wasn’t a woman. Men have all the advantages—”

  A waitress came to take their orders. As usual, Melissa smacked her lips over all the succulent items on the menu, then ordered soup and a salad, claiming she was saving herself for dessert. Catherine selected a club sandwich but passed on the fries.

  They talked about Melissa’s children. Fourteen-year-old Tiana would be starting high school this fall, and her seventeen-year-old brother would be graduating in the spring. Ralston was several inches over six feet, thickly muscled and a star on his football team. He had already been scouted for an athletic scholarship, which his grandparents firmly opposed. Sports were an escape for many minority kids, but the senior Tanners disdained the notion of one of their offspring being stereotyped with a bunch of kids from the ghetto. Catherine knew Jordan would have told Ralston to go for it. He’d have brought his parents around to accepting it, too. She wondered what Jeff would think of the situation and the advice he’d offer.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Why should she care what Jeff Rowan thought? Just because the man kissed her—and she kissed him back—didn’t justify her practically obsessing over him like some adolescent.

  Steering herself back to the conversation at hand, she said, “As long as what Ralston does isn’t illegal or immoral, he should be true to himself.” The food arrived. “He won’t be happy living someone else’s dream,” she added, when the waitress had gone.

  “You sound like Jordan,” her sister-in-law blurted out, then bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . ”

  Catherine smiled. “That was a compliment. Nothing to apologize for. Don’t worry about mentioning him. He’s never far from my thoughts anyway.” Except when I’m kissing Jeff.

  “I’ve always envied you,” Melissa said. “What you and Jordan shared was so special.” She dabbed vinaigrette on her spinach salad. “I’d hoped Tyrone and I would have that . . . I’ve tried to be the wife he wants, he—”

  “He doesn’t deserve you, Melly. He is what he wants to be, not what he should be. You’re entitled to better.”

  Melissa concentrated on her food. “Oh, I couldn’t leave him, if that’s what you suggesting. He’s not perfect, but . . . I have to think of the children.” She forked up dark green leaves. “I’ve seen what divorce can do to kids. I won’t let that happen to my children. Growing up is hard enough these days, being a teenager especially,” she rambled on. “So many influences parents can’t control. At least we owe it to them to give them a stable home, even if it’s not perfect.” She tried to smile. “Besides, I love the handsome bastard.” Her eyes were glassy.

  Catherine reached across the table and placed her hand on her sister-in-law’s. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You haven’t said anything I haven’t thought myself. A hundred times. Maybe someday I’ll work up the courage to tell him to go to hell, but not until after the kids are grown.”

  Catherine picked up a three-tiered triangle of sandwich. “You’re right about kids needing stability. I’ve seen too much of what happens when there isn’t any. Over ninety percent of the felons we deal with come from broken
homes, and not all of them poor ones, either. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “I’m worried about Dante,” Melissa said a minute later.

  “Why?” At nineteen, their elder son was a freshman at Rice, majoring in architecture, his uncle’s favorite art form.

  “You know how he always looked up to Jordan as more than an uncle, more like a fa—” She didn’t complete the word. “Ever since Jordan’s death, Dante and Ty haven’t been getting along.”

  “They’ve been fighting? Over what?”

  “There doesn’t have to be a reason. The two never seem to exchange a civil word anymore. Dante’s schoolwork has suffered, too. He’s going to summer school—”

  “I thought that was to earn extra credits.”

  “That’s what we’ve been telling people. The truth is, he failed two subjects and has to take them over in order to go on to junior year.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Catherine said. The boy had graduated from high school with honors a year early. Jordan had been as proud of him as if he were his own son.

  “I wish there was someone he could talk to. Someone who could help him.”

  “Have you considered professional counseling?”

  “He won’t go,” Melissa said. “He insists he has everything under control. If only—”

  “Jordan were here,” Catherine concluded. But then, there wouldn’t be a problem. For her, either. She wouldn’t find herself thinking about Jeff Rowan in ways that were inappropriate.

  “How is Ty handling the situation?” Catherine asked.

  “Not well. He’s threatening to kick Dante out of the house. At one point I was afraid the two were going to start swinging at each other.”

  “That’s not like your son.” He’d always been a quiet boy, rather introspective, neither combative nor competitive.

  “Which is why I’m so worried about him,” Melissa said, concern in her soft voice. “I wish I knew what was bothering him.”

  “Girl problems?”