Elizabeth was persuaded to sit down, bribed with a slice of peach coffee cake. Bett whirled back to her turkey, her mind rushing through the morning’s organizing of recipes and cooking. The menu included her whole-grain zucchini bread, honey-glazed carrots, the sinfully rich coeur à la crème-roughly translated as “cream of the heart.” She didn’t dare look at Zach. He was undoubtedly going to see this morning as yet another instance of Bett slaving in the kitchen over her mother’s choices. They were hers, and it mattered so very much that he understand that. Chop, chop, chop. Even her cleaver was picking up determination.
Her mother suddenly was hovering over her shoulder, the coffee cake obviously having exhausted its appeal. “I’ve always loved Thanksgiving,” Elizabeth mentioned idly.
“Me, too.”
“I could do that for you.”
“I’d rather do it myself, Mom.” Bett poured the last cup of chopped ingredients into the huge bowl and started stirring.
“You’re going to add raisins, aren’t you? Your father always liked raisins in the stuffing.”
“Actually, no,” Bett said weakly.
There was a moment of silence for this bit of heresy. Bett spared a longing glance for her still-full, now-cold, cup of coffee on the counter. She should have managed at least one full quota of caffeine before anyone was up. Why was hindsight so cheap? And why did this whole scene feel like Custer’s Last Stand?
“I think,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “you should add raisins. I always do.” Bett felt her mother shift restlessly behind her. “Actually, Brittany, you should go up and get dressed. I could finish the stuffing for you, and then later you wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry…”
“That’s okay, Mom. There’s plenty of time.”
“You’re not going to add raisins.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “That’s up to you, of course. It never occurred to me that you didn’t like them. You never said anything, all the years you lived at home. And every single Thanksgiving…”
The pause was Bett’s cue to give in. Not that there would be an argument if she didn’t. Just very gentle needling, perhaps a sentimental blur of tears in her mother’s eyes for scorned traditions, and the unconscious message that Bett was doing something wrong. Like a sponge, Bett had always soaked up guilt. Obviously, there was something terribly wrong with her for wanting to make stuffing without raisins.
Raisins?
Bett suddenly felt sick. She’d planned a tactful confrontation with her mom, but, truthfully, over something far more heroic than dried fruit.
“Each to her own taste,” she said mildly, thinking that perhaps it was easier to start with the little things. In your house, your way, darling. In my house, mine. The first bridge was just saying it aloud.
She glanced over her shoulder after a moment or two. Her mother was staring at her with an odd expression as Bett stuffed the raisinless mixture into the bird.
“I have a story to tell you,” Bett continued cheerfully. “The very first year we were married, I cooked Thanksgiving turkey for Zach. I got out two cookbooks and memorized the instructions and told Zach I didn’t want any help. I must have basted the thing every two minutes; it was a miracle it ever cooked, but that’s neither here nor there. You never let me in the kitchen as a kid, Mom, more’s the pity. I didn’t realize the turkey was…um…hollow inside. Much less than there was anything inside the holes…”
Her mother’s mouth was slowly starting to curve into a smile; so was Bett’s. “I called Zach in to carve when it was done, so proud of myself. He said he’d first get the stuffing out for me, so out came the heart and gizzard and neck and all, still in the paper bag. Very well cooked they were. So was the paper bag. What on earth is that? I asked him…”
Elizabeth started laughing. So did Bett. Bridge two, she thought wryly. Mom, I would like to announce that you have a daughter capable of doing some very foolish things. I don’t want your damn approval. I just want to share.
Her mother’s eyes were sparkling with laughter. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Sweetheart, did I ever tell you the story of when I was first married…”
No, she’d never told Bett the story. Bett had always been under the impression that her mother never made mistakes in the kitchen, that Elizabeth had been born with the ruthless efficiency to manage a faultless house. Bett’s eyes flickered to the table. Zach had left the kitchen. She wished he were there. She wanted him to see that she had heard him, that the small bridges were being mended.
Her mother suddenly reached over and hugged her, and Bett hugged back. “Brittany, we’re going to have a wonderful day!” Elizabeth announced.
Bett was suddenly not quite so unhappy that Zach had disappeared. All the bridges didn’t have to do with Zach. Her relationship with her mother was separate in itself.
Her heart was in both corners, but there was no question, not for an instant, where her priorities were.
She loved her mother; Zach was her life.
***
“That was an absolutely wonderful dinner!” Wynn Hawthorne pushed himself back from the table, patted his stomach, his white head shaking in appreciation.
Wynn was a retired insurance man, with all the gregarious conversation that went with his trade. Bob Lake owned a local processing plant; he seemed a quiet, austere man, and he’d lost his wife three years ago. Garth Hawkins, the bearded giant, had four generations of fanning behind him.
Heaven only knew why Bett had thought they would blend at the table over a Thanksgiving feast. They did have one thing in common-being lonely strays-but only a manic optimist would have believed that was enough. Not that talk hadn’t flowed easily enough, but Elizabeth was sitting silently on the other side of the table, rarely drawn into the conversation. She seemed to lack any interest in any of them…actually, to an almost unusual degree. Once Elizabeth got over her shyness, she’d always been naturally curious about people.
Awkwardly, Bett stood up. “Dessert, everyone?” Awkwardly, she started to clear the plates. “Awkwardly” summed up the entire afternoon, and she felt ridiculously close to tears. She’d been swamped with chores in the kitchen all morning; there hadn’t been an instant to talk with Zach. Twice he’d walked in-once the blender had been roaring, and the second time Billy Oaks had popped in the door. His mother obviously had kicked him out so she could prepare her own Thanksgiving feast in relative peace; in the meantime, he’d brought the thriving raccoons over to show Bett. Of course, they’d gotten loose in the kitchen.
She hadn’t seen Zach again until she was letting their company in the front door. Her dress was dark red, a velvet jersey. It had stitching under the bodice that almost made her look busty, a gentle flow to the skirt, feminine medieval sleeves, a soft V to the neck. She could not conceivably look better. She’d violently threatened her hair to stay in its pins; tiny strands curled around her cheeks and the nape of her neck; mascara and shadow highlighted every seductive potential she had in her eyes; and she’d applied perfume lightly in every wicked hollow.
Zach hadn’t noticed.
She looked perfectly beautiful, and he hadn’t noticed. The three men had arrived on top of each other; she should have guessed why. Halftime. She’d managed to set the turkey on the table between football games, as she expected half the women in the nation were doing. That part was fine, or at least sort of fine.
She’d just had different expectations of the entire feast. It was her menu, her organization of the dinner and the house and hostessing the guests; she wanted Zach to see that. She’d had hopes that the guests would keep her mother entertained, and she would have a little one-on-one time with Zach; Zach was going to have an easy, relaxed meal and Bett was going to confidently, brilliantly, handle the peripherals and when the day was finally over they would talk.
Only the plan had crumbled. Wynn kept throwing an arm around her shoulders; she hated men who touched so carelessly. Garth was pompous and just never stopped talking, and Bob was a military enthusi
ast who conjured up world wars for enjoyment.
Before they’d been invited to dinner, her guests had certainly given very different impressions. As she scraped the plates in the kitchen, Bett decided glumly that all men showed their true colors when put in front of a football game. The next time she vetted someone for her mother, it was going to be at a fourth-and-goal in front of a TV set. In the meantime, Zach’s relaxed dinner had gone by the wayside. Zach was not a military enthusiast, hated pompous people, and his repeated icy stares at Wynn could have refrozen the turkey.
Elizabeth carried in another round of empty dessert plates, her cheeks flaming. “Did you hear what that Garth said?” she hissed.
Bett nodded. Garth liked simple talk-all four-letter words. Who would have expected that of Susan Lee’s brother-in-law’s cousin? “Now, I know he wouldn’t deliberately offend you, Mom. It’s just his way of talking.”
“We should have salted his turkey with detergent,” Elizabeth announced blandly.
A wisp of a smile appeared on Bett’s face at the idea, but it quickly faded.
“What’s wrong with your hair?” her mother asked curiously.
Bett’s fingers raced up to her hairpins. The ones that were all sort of hanging in midair. “Nothing.” She pulled them out, one by one. Who cared? The day was destroyed. Her grand visions of handling the holiday had gone the way of dust. It was her house; she was in control; they were about to go back to living the way she and Zach liked to live; and her mother was going to be well loved but ousted-gently-from the director’s chair. This was not a movie set.
Fine.
Only seeing was believing, and how could Zach possibly believe she had such monumental changes in mind after the hours that had just passed? She had to talk to him.
“They’ve settled into another football game,” Elizabeth remarked.
Of course.
Chapter 14
Restlessly, Bett picked up the vials of perfume on her dressing table. There were only three. Shalimar was a scent that generally made her feel wanton and seductive; she usually paired it with the black see-through blouse she never wore out in public. Charlie smelled like summer, like daytime and sunlight and freedom.
L’Air du Temps was her favorite. She lifted the tiny crystal bottle and sprayed a hint on her throat, then impatiently set the vial down again, wrapping her arms across her chest. The whole bedroom was beginning to reek of it, primarily because that was the fourth time she’d reached for it. Dutch courage just wasn’t forthcoming.
Zach had left to go for a walk more than an hour ago and still hadn’t returned. Elizabeth was in bed; their guests had been gone for two hours now. At ten, with the kitchen in some sort of reasonable order, Bett had gone upstairs. Now, twenty minutes later, she was still pacing the room, still dressed in the dark red velvet jersey, every nerve keyed up to an unbearably high pitch. Zach, would you please come home, her heart kept crying. She chewed on a fingernail, staring again at the empty doorway.
***
Soundlessly, Zach turned the knob of the back door and let himself in. His cheeks were icy and his hands stiff with cold as he took off his coat. Outside, it was still snowing; distractedly, he ran a hand through his still-damp hair before glancing at the stairs. Downstairs it was cool and silent…and empty.
The long walk had chased away half the cobwebs of a most tedious day. The other half hadn’t been banished nearly as easily. Zach was angry. He’d been angry for the better part of a week.
His eyes had followed Bett nearly all day. The expression on her face, half humorous, half terribly anxious, when she’d served him a fork and knife and bowl of dressing for breakfast. The time at midmorning, when the kitchen had been a myriad of confused pots and pans and recipes, and the look in Bett’s eyes when Billy had popped in the door with the three raccoons. Bett had dropped everything to fuss over them. If he hadn’t slipped into the kitchen, that pot of sticky honey sauce would have boiled over on the stove. Then there’d been that special sexiness she radiated in the red dress…and his desire to maim when the so-called distinguished insurance salesman had picked up on it and dared to touch her.
He’d watched her. And his anger had kept growing. He’d accused her of letting Elizabeth undermine her confidence, her spirit, her values…their love. He’d been disappointed in her. Disappointed, angry, and…
Dead wrong.
He slipped off his shoes, turned off the lights downstairs and mounted the stairs slowly in the darkness. Bett was no one’s doormat. She never had been. She was an assertive, stubborn, strong-willed lady. The only time she turned into marshmallow was when there was a risk of hurting someone. She was terrible at hurting people-failed every time.
And for that, he’d turned on her? He was more than angry with himself; for days he’d been sick inside, not knowing how to make it right again, afraid anything he said would be wrong. Fear had built up in him, like a slow coiling spring, fear that he might have destroyed something that mattered more than life, that he might have hurt her in a way he could not make up for. The spring had coiled tight, too tight. His shoulders hadn’t untensed in days; he’d barely slept; every muscle felt taut.
He stood for a moment before the closed door of their bedroom. He meant to push very quietly at the knob; instead, all his pent-up despair shoved at the door. It swung open, and Bett jerked around where she stood on the far side of the room by the window, her eyes huge and uncertain in her pale face. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, and the sudden vulnerable flush on her cheeks tore at his heart as she rushed toward him.
“Zach! I’m sorry. You are just going to have to listen to me, so don’t start looking like that again. I’ve been wanting to tell you for days that I’m sorry-” Her hands fluttered up, her soft eyes brimming rapidly. “I couldn’t wait for you to come home. Everything went wrong today. I know how it must have looked to you, that everything was for my mother, that I didn’t care what you wanted. Zach, it wasn’t intended that way. I wanted so much to show you-”
“Sh.” The single syllable seemed to startle her. The coiled spring inside him seemed to uncoil at the speed of light. He was furious all over again that she was so unhappy. He took a step toward her, eyes blazing. And then, with a very gentle hand, pushed back a strand of hair on her cheek. “It wasn’t you,” he said earnestly. “I was wrong. Dammit, I never meant to hurt you. The thing with your mother was so important to you-I just wanted it to be right. For you, Bett. You were getting hurt, and I couldn’t just stand there. But I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“Of course you should have pushed. I was so wrapped up in it, I couldn’t see. I did miss all the times we have together, all the feelings, all the simple conversations, and yet I kept letting it happen. It’s all my fault-”
He surged forward, tugging her into his arms and wrapping her close, folding in the soft fabric of her dress, the scent of her, her silky hair. He wanted his touch to be soothing, and it wasn’t. He couldn’t hold her tightly enough. “Nothing,” he growled, “was your fault. Nothing.”
“It was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Zach-”
“Stop arguing with me.” He tilted her head back with his thumbs on her chin. His lips came down on her trembling ones, his touch turning gentle. In his hold was all the fear of losing her. Nothing was as vulnerable as loving. Nothing felt as good as the feel of his wife close to him again.
“Zach.” She stayed enfolded, but her eyes lifted to his, that frantic wariness gone but her face grave and still haunted with anxiety. “It was my fault, you know. I let the meaning of the two of us…slip away. I didn’t see. So insensitive, Zach, but I honestly never believed that could happen. I never had to let my mother control-”
“Maybe,” he agreed quietly. “I knew you could handle her, Bett. And I knew if you finally did, you’d be happier.” His fingers brushed back her hair. “I also happen to love you, you know. I love your softness and your giving. And to expect you suddenly to tur
n hard as nails was stupid on my part. Stupid and wrong.”
“It wasn’t wrong.” She leaned her cheek into his palm. “I never meant to-”
“Are you still arguing?” His tone was half humorous, half genuinely exasperated. And all loving.
Her eyes searched his face. The love she saw there was a fierce thing, even while he was trying to coax her into a smile. “You had a right to be angry,” she said quietly. “And…hurt. I know I hurt you. I…”
“No,” he murmured. “I hurt you.” His hands slid around her back, his mouth dipping down to the curve of her shoulder. So damn stupid, to be angry she wasn’t tougher inside, tough and hardhearted. Tough and strong were not the same thing at all. Every year they’d been married, she’d grown in confidence; he’d swelled with love, watching her. He wanted her to grow-not toughen, just grow. But it was long past time for him to make love to the lady she was, to make very sure she understood that he loved her just as she was. His palms slid down, cupping her slim hips. His lips found a delectable spot in the curve of her shoulder.
She yielded like Eve, with a sigh that seemed to flow through her body. She wrapped her arms around him and just held on, still trembling, her face buried in his shoulder. And for once, the knock on the door didn’t make her stiffen suddenly into a statue. Zach pressed his lips firmly on hers, drawing back. “I’ll handle it,” he said quietly.
“No. I will.” Bett pulled away from him. Elizabeth was her mother. This was exactly the time to prove it. All day she’d been trying to show him that she had her priorities back in order. When she pulled open the door, her eyes were brilliant, fired with determination.
Elizabeth, on the other side of the doorway, looked delectably vulnerable in her pink ruffled robe. “I was hoping you were awake, Brittany. There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you all day-”
“Mom, I’m exhausted. So is Zach.”
“I never told you about Harold Baker. You know, the man who owns the bookstore in Silver Oaks? And it’s been bothering me that I haven’t told you. Brittany, we’ve been meeting for lunch. And…more than lunch. Actually-”
Cupid’s Confederates Page 16
