by Geeta Kakade
"Just Brady?” Kate liked the name. Very much.
"Just Brady,” he said firmly. "Do you have everything you need? Wrapping paper? A card? Ribbon?”
Kate nodded weakly. The store stocked none of these items. Why was he going out of his way to be helpful? She couldn’t remember a time when someone had actually looked out for her. Harold, bless his soul, was the perfect chivalrous gentleman. He did everything by the book. Like holding the door for her or standing up when she came into the room, but he always spoiled it by looking around to see if he had an audience. But this man, Brady, looked as if he pleased no one but himself.
Each action of his, each word, seemed to be a wave, eroding the fortress she had erected around herself with such painstaking care, and guarded so zealously. The impulse to curl up against the comfort of that solid chest, lose herself in the warmth of his arms, was becoming harder to resist by the second.
She picked up her package hurriedly. She had to get herself out of here fast.
"I’ll be back on Friday, around seven with the rest of the money. Thank you. Goodbye.” Turning she fled.
"Not goodbye,” Brady said softly to her retreating back, "Never that. It’s hello. Hello, darling.”
Kate pirouetted in front of the mirror, wishing her breasts had never grown out of the thirty four C cup she had worn when she was eighteen. It wasn’t fashionable to have big ones these days, and Harold’s mother, rake thin and impossibly beautiful, had suggested that a little dieting wouldn’t be amiss.
"Well,” said Kate defiantly to herself, imitating Popeye, "I am what I am.”
Staring at her face, she reviewed her features. Her eyes and her dimples were her best bets. Her nose and mouth were tolerable and the gap between her two front teeth she positively hated.
Smoothing the black skirt over hips that suddenly felt too big, as seen through Marcia Jensen’s eyes, Kate sucked in her breath and turned for a sideways look at herself.
Suddenly reminded of eyes the color of slate and filled with blatant appreciation as they looked at her, Kate was flooded with confidence.
The loose top, in a rose patterned crepe de chine she had made herself, looked very nice. Hopefully Mrs. J, wouldn’t ask her where she had got it. When Kate had mentioned once she enjoyed making a few things for herself, especially when they cost about a third of regular store prices, a distinct cold front had moved into the older woman’s eyes, making Kate feel she had committed a serious social gaffe. No wonder some people were driven into sewing designer labels into their homemade clothes.
But that wasn’t what was important now. What was important was that Harold should like her. Enough to propose marriage.
Harold had walked into the preschool where Kate worked, to discuss leasing technicalities with Mrs. Wright the director, in December. Kate had been using the office copier at that very moment and explained that Mrs. Wright would be back in a few minutes. By the time the director had come in fifteen minutes later, Harold had found out she was single, taught the three year old class, and lived in Jacaranda Meadows.
They had seen each other once a week since then and Kate knew he was going to ask her to marry him tonight, just as she knew Harold hated colored shirts and cut offs. Getting to know Harold had been easy. He told her about himself at every possible opportunity. Irritated at times by his tendency to center the conversation around himself, other factors had inclined Kate to overlook this propensity.
Harold was a very wealthy person. As a real estate broker who owned his own realty firm, his future was assured. The man did have justification for dwelling on his successes. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t realize how he came across. After all no one was perfect.
By March, Kate knew he was giving serious thought to offering her the honor of being Mrs. Harold Jensen. But everything with Harold took a certain circumspect path.
For a moment, Katie frowned at her reflection, thinking of years with Mrs. J. as a mother in law, years of herself listening to Harold every evening, surrounded by little Harolds with suitably rapt expressions on their innocent faces, growing up thinking it was only right and natural to hold forth ad nauseum about oneself.
Out of context, a face flashed across her mental screen. Devil may care bitumen eyes asking if she had wrapping paper.
Kate gave herself a light slap on the face, "Snap out of it Kathryn McArthur. Fantasies aren’t going to help you realize you dreams. Harold is.”
She reached for a summer stole and picked up her keys. It was a good thing the habit of keeping both feet firmly planted on the ground was so firmly ingrained.
CHAPTER 2
Kate’s eyes wandered around her apartment, appreciating its airy brightness. Light and space were very important to her and there was no shortage of that here. She had been lucky to see the notice in the Pennysaver asking for a house sitter, two years ago.
The Guthries, the couple that owned the home, co-authored travel books that naturally necessitated frequent absences from home. They had wanted someone responsible to live in permanently. They had liked Kate right from the start and offered her the position immediately.
All that was required was her presence on the premises at night and an eye kept on the gardener and the cleaning service to see they put in regular appearances.
The beautiful, two-story, custom built house set on a hill was part of an exclusive tract in Jacaranda Meadows known as Goldrush Hill. The whole was little more than one road on the crest of the hill, lined with huge custom lots on either side, with breathtaking views.
Though part of Los Angeles County, Jacaranda Meadows, a master planned development of single family homes, spread from a low lying area in the middle to encompass small hills and a total area of five thousand acres. Hemmed in on one side by green hills, two major freeways formed a natural boundary on the other two sides. To the far north, the imposing, still snowcapped San Gabriel mountains, provided a majestic backdrop. Forty-five minutes away from downtown Los Angeles, Jacaranda Meadows gave one the impression of being shut away in a tiny world of one’s own, a page torn out of a book on English villages.
The little apartment above the Guthrie's three car garage was perfect for Kate. The scaled down rent in return for her house sitting services enabled her to resign her job as cashier in the large grocery store downtown. She had moved out of the stuffy bedsit she had rented in Los Angeles and had gladly moved to Jacaranda Meadows.
California Polytechnic, the college she’d transferred her credits to, was just fifteen minutes away. It would take her another two years of part-time schooling to get her degree, but Kate was happy with the way things were. The preschool where she worked now, had hired her immediately, delighted with the courses she had completed in child development. With everything taken care of, her exhausted fairy godmother had retired for a much needed rest, letting Kate get on with her new life.
Since her teens, she had contemplated every move in her life like a master chess player, engaging in weighty thought before every step. No one knew better than Kate how hard she had struggled to get to where she was now. In her position, a girl had to watch out for herself. So far she deserved an A for achievement.
Kate steered clear of any dealings with men with a determination that had bordered on fanaticism. Even after she had discovered her original suspicion that one couldn’t get pregnant just by kissing a man was totally false she hadn’t allowed anyone to distract her from her real purpose. Not many had been interested in the scrawny redhead at first anyway and later her cool disinterest had quenched any sparks of interest that had flared.
It was not love that Kate was looking for. It was financial security. It had taken her twenty-three years to get to the right side of the tracks and she intended to live there for the rest of her life.
Now that she and Harold were going steady Kate knew it was only natural they become lovers. Why then, was she so reluctant for the final consummation of their acquaintance?
Everyone did it these days and
at work Kate had given the impression that she had sufficient experience in the field to be classed above the rank of amateur, just to avoid being singled out as an oddity. No one knew better than she did, the cost of being an oddity.
Privately, she thought she was just one of those persons with a naturally low sex drive. It probably had to do with one’s hormones or something. She didn’t want to go to bed with Harold. Marriage ought to cure her of her natural reluctance for it. According to everything she’d heard on the subject, sex was definitely not a chore. No doubt, in time, she would get used to it.
After the dinner with Harold and his mother, she couldn’t fall asleep. Kate tossed and turned in bed till the covers resembled a rat’s nest. Finally abandoning temporarily the thought of sleep she got herself a soda and sat down on the single armchair in the room to stare out at the midnight blue sky and take stock of the reasons for her insomnia.
The dinner had been excellent and Harold satisfyingly attentive. As they had washed up for his mother, he had told her he wished they were alone, that he would pick her up at seven for dinner on Wednesday, that they had to talk. Later, walking her out to her car he had kissed her with a great deal of passion. Which ought to add up to exactly what Kate wanted. The third finger of her left hand wouldn’t be unadorned much longer. This was it. Success did come to those who worked and planned for it.
And Kate had. For years, she had worked on herself, exercising regularly, following a beauty regime that made the best of her natural assets, buying clothes as if they were Merrill Lynch investments and reading Emily Post till she could quote passages by heart as if it were high school Shakespeare. Now all that effort was beginning to pay off.
As Mrs. Harold Jensen she would never have to fear the resurrection of her private nightmare. Once and for all she would be on the right side of the tracks. Forever.
Then why out of the blue did she want to stop time and delay the moment Harold would propose? Were pre- engagement jitters common?
Momentarily, another picture flashed across her mental screen. A man with gray eyes that caressed where they touched, asking, `Do you have a card? Wrapping paper?' A man, who for the space of a little while, had made her aware of herself like she had never been in all her life.
The scene swirled before her eyes and then was lost, pushed aside by another more powerful.
A house sporting blistered dirty paint, it’s flimsy front door leading into barren rooms, sparsely furnished with donated goods. Now there were figures cavorting onto her mental stage. A man, unkempt, unwashed, drunk, yelling, whining, raging about Fate, lack of work, the Government, making promises he had never remembered, let alone kept. A woman struggling to scrimp a little money here and there, keeping it carefully hidden, handing over welfare checks without a word of protest, trying desperately to keep up some semblance of a normal life. A scrawny girl, crouched shivering in a ramshackle cot, covers drawn over her head, fingers stuffed into her ears as far as they would go, to shut out the sounds of rage, the blows, the abject misery, the incessant whining.
Through the revival, a single theme sounded in her ears, `You’ve got to get away from here, Katie love. You’ve got to.'
Trying to build a good life on the ashes of her childhood wasn’t easy. Embers still lurked in those ashes, ready to burst into flame and burn her seriously if she let them.
Kate raised her hands to her cheeks, knuckling the tears she had been unaware she was shedding aside impatiently. Self-pity was no use. Life dealt the cards and one played the game to the best of one’s ability. Kate intended using every advantage she could to end up a winner.
Her mother’s litany echoed in Kate’s ears again, reminding her of the small woman whose burning eyes had seemed the only living thing about her, and she said, "I’ll be fine Mama, you’ll see.”
The words spoken aloud crystallized her determination. Kate knew exactly what she was going to do. She had to deal with fact, not fancy. When Harold proposed, she would tell him it would be an honor to marry him.
The following week passed uneventfully with her usual routine at work and at home. Harold called to tell her his mother had a particularly virulent type of influenza and would Kate mind if they postponed their date?
Kate made all the expected sympathetic remarks and assured Harold she didn’t mind at all, hanging up to find herself almost light headed with relief like a prisoner granted a reprieve.
Which was ridiculous really. It must have something to do with having been on her own for so long and wondering how much freedom an engagement would curtail. Harold and his mother both had strong ideas about the path his wife should tread and so far Kate hadn’t dreamt of contradicting them.
The second Monday in April dawned bright and clear. White clouds scudding across the blue sky, the green hills surrounding Jacaranda Meadows looking velvety smooth, the intoxicating headiness of the spring breeze that ruffled through her curls, all combined to reach deep within Kate and find an answering gladness there, as she drove to work.
She was convinced that Jacaranda Meadows was the prettiest spot in the world. It had an air of being completely isolated that she loved, though it was only a stone’s throw from the major freeways linking it with Los Angeles. It was so far removed from the squalor she had grown up in, that just being there seemed like such a miracle that Kate never failed to give thanks for.
There was a note for her in the communication journal in the Director’s scrawl, `Katie, new boy in your class. Starts today. Cody Webb. Nine to twelve only.'
The room she taught in was divided into two by a bright yellow picket fence. Mrs. Kettle, the other three year old teacher, had seven children as well. In the beginning, Kate had been conscious of being watched, as if Nancy Kettle had been handpicked by the KGB for the job. After two days, judgment had been passed, "You’re a natural with children.”
The remark had been a prelude to a friendship that meant more to her than being accepted by the younger girls on the staff as one of them. From experience, Kate knew she would never fit in with them. Mentally, she was a million light years too old to enjoy their giggling discussions about their boyfriend’s prowess, clothes, make-up.
A few days into knowing her, Nan had decided that Kate needed a friend and that she could do with some spoiling. Most days, she brought in a piece of pie, some freshly baked cookies, an extra roast beef sandwich for her, pooh poohed her remarks about calories and lectured her on sensible eating. Often they visited each other’s homes, sometimes going out for a movie or dinner together and for the first time in her life Kate knew what it was to have a friend.
This last weekend, Kate had spent watching a two year old boy and his eight year old sister in their home, while their parents enjoyed a getaway mini vacation. The Guthries were home so Kate didn’t have to worry about being away from Goldrush Hill.
It had been Nan who had suggested to Kate that this might be an easy way of making extra money. Once word had got around, Kate had done a great deal of moonlighting. Parents enjoyed the brief respites even more when they knew there was a responsible, caring adult in charge of their children.
This last weekend meant that the extra money she’d had to pay for Harold’s present wouldn’t deplete some other part of her carefully balanced budget. She would even have enough left over for the silk blouse she’d seen on sale at an upscale department store. The fact that she could afford clothes from there ought definitely to make Mrs. J., happy.
The two youngsters she’d watched were well behaved and the weekend had gone smoothly. Kate had enjoyed the children’s company and the change from her normal routine.
A sound made Kate look down from the chair she was standing on to pin her animal poster to the wall, straight into eyes the gray of bitumen. Surprise almost toppled her off the chair.
“Careful,” he was by it in an instant, his hand on her waist, steadying her, charging her body with his touch.
Kate got off the small chair and moved out of Brady’s reach. A q
uick survey of the room showed Nan’s head in her cupboard. What was Brady doing here? It was ten days since she had seen him.
Last Friday she had stopped by the store to pay the balance of her bill but there had been no sign of him and she hadn’t liked to ask. The proprietor had apologized for the salesgirl’s mistake and told Kate she really didn’t need to pay the difference but Kate had insisted, wondering why the lady seemed so familiar.
`Hi! What are you doing here?”
He was looking very suave in grey pants, a white shirt and a silk tie. Clean shaven, the strength of him came across in his face, the firm lips, the line of his jaw. Kate’s heart warmed and the feeling overflowed into her smile.
A movement drew Kate’s attention to the little boy who claimed his hand. It took a minute for her to guess this might be Cody Webb. The face of a cherub highlighted by a pair of roguish eyes, temporarily portraying anxiety. Eyes the color of bitumen. Black hair that curled instead of being merely wavy. The muscled walls of her heart went into a spasm as the truth hit her right between the eyes. Cody Webb was Brady’s son.
The next minute, she told herself the jolt she’d felt had been pure relief. He was a married man. Out of bounds. That made everything so much easier.
“Hello Katie. I brought Cody to school today,” The way he said her name, accenting its syllables with a caress making it sound like an endearment, made the marrow in her bones liquefy.
Darn the man. She focused on the little boy.
“Hi, Cody. I’m Miss Kate, your teacher.”
Hadn’t his wife told Brady that it was illegal for a husband and father to look at anyone else the way he was looking at her now? As if he would devour her with his eyes? The hummingbird seemed to have lodged itself in her throat again, it’s wings stirring up a miniature typhoon there.
