by Jean Stone
P.J. put on her short-sleeved muslin granny dress, the dress that had an uncanny way of hiding the facts of nature. She prayed the August night would remain warm enough so she wouldn’t freeze. God, having to pre-plan what to wear to conceal her body had never been an issue for P.J., and she detested it.
He kissed her hello right there on Main Street. P.J. cringed. What if the eagle-eyed sheriff happened to drive by?
“Let’s go,” she said nervously.
Peter looked puzzled. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
They rode off in his pickup, then stopped to get the coffee. P.J. watched Peter as he hopped from the truck and sauntered inside the brightly lit doughnut shop. He was so handsome, so sexy, and his body moved with the self-assuredness of a sought-after stud. As she studied Peter, P.J. grew angry with herself. Why was she here with him anyway? What did she expect to gain? Just because she was once beautiful, did that give her the right to use Peter, or any man? Used. The way she had been used by Frank.
On the way to the lake P.J. knew she was being unusually quiet, but she couldn’t help it. What had been exciting in the beginning now took on an empty, go-nowhere feeling.
“What’s the matter? You have a fight with your aunt?” Peter asked.
“What?”
“You’ve hardly said two words since you met me tonight. What’s wrong?” Peter cast a glance at her with those drop-dead turquoise eyes. Guilt welled up in P.J. like an inflating balloon. He was so cute, so naive. He didn’t deserve this. But she needed him so much. Needed someone so much. So what if she didn’t love Peter? So what? At least she could make herself be happy, if only for now.
“Nothing,” P.J. answered. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I had a hard time getting out of the house tonight.”
Peter pulled into the parking area at the lake. “I don’t know why you don’t tell your aunt about us,” he said. “It’s not like you’re twelve years old or anything.” He stopped the truck and reached for P.J., ignoring the full thermos on the floor. Peter obviously didn’t have coffee on his mind tonight.
“Peter …” P.J. started, then her mouth was crushed by his kiss.
“No,” he murmured. “Let’s not talk. I’ve missed you so much.”
P.J. responded to his kiss. Fat and ugly as she now was, Peter wanted her. And there was no denying the feeling; she wanted him to want her.
Their kisses grew heated. Their hands began moving, groping, exploring. Peter touched the side of P.J.’s breast. She arched her back in submission and slid her lips onto his neck. He moved his hand and gently cupped the fullness of her breast. “Take it off,” he whispered.
P.J. reached behind her and unzipped the top of her dress. She slowly pushed the shoulders down, exposing the top of her bra. Peter quickly flicked a hand on her back; her bra opened; her breasts sprang free. A thought fled through P.J.’s mind: This hunk is not so innocent.
He caressed each breast, one at a time. Then he leaned down and sucked at a nipple, moving his wet tongue in tiny circles, until P.J. felt she would explode. She tossed her head back in ecstasy. God, this was wonderful.
Peter lifted his head and continued to massage her breasts. “I want you, P.J.,” he said. “You are so beautiful. I want you so much.” He removed one hand from her breast, and P.J. felt it glide under her dress, up her thigh. He touched the outside of her panties. She knew he felt the wetness. Soon he would feel her stomach. Soon he would feel the baby.
P.J. bolted upright. “No!” she screamed.
Peter pulled back his hand. “What?”
She quickly fastened her bra and slipped her arms back into her dress. “No, Peter. I can’t.”
He moved away from her and stared out the windshield. “Shit,” he said, into the darkness.
In the morning P.J. sat outside on the veranda. It was going to be another hot, sticky day, but P.J. wore a cardigan sweater over her dress. She couldn’t stop shaking; she couldn’t warm up. She had pulled her hair back into an unattractive ponytail and wore no makeup. Much to Miss Taylor’s dismay, P.J. had skipped breakfast. She had no appetite.
Susan banged the screen door behind her and came out onto the porch. “What’s up?” she asked P.J. as she flopped onto one of the wicker chairs.
P.J. shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Susan stretched her long legs, kicked off her sandals, and rested her feet on the spindle railing. “Something you caught last night?”
The lump in P.J.’s throat warned her if she talked, she would start to cry, so she said nothing.
“I know you went out, P.J.,” Susan continued. “I couldn’t sleep. I went down to your room just before midnight. I figured the only reason you didn’t answer your door was because you weren’t there.” Susan lit a cigarette.
The smell of the smoke made P.J. nauseous. God, if she didn’t even feel like smoking, something must really be wrong.
“Did you meet Peter again?” Susan asked.
P.J. hung her head and looked down at the gray-painted floor. She closed her eyes.
“Can I assume you told him you’re pregnant?”
The tears came, flowing soundlessly from her eyes.
“Bingo,” Susan said.
P.J. shook her head. “No,” she uttered. “No, I didn’t tell him. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to see him again.”
Now it was Susan’s turn not to talk. P.J. looked up at her, watched Susan take a slow drag from her cigarette. Susan isn’t very pretty, P.J. thought. She’s too tall and a little bit klutzy, and her nose is way too big. But she had someone who loved her. David. P.J. didn’t doubt David had loved Susan, and that Susan had loved David. How did that work? How did two people end up feeling the same way about each other, falling in love with each other? Peter, P.J. knew, thought he was in love with her. God, he didn’t even know her.
“Oh, Susan,” P.J. confessed, “I’ve really made a mess out of things.”
Susan slowly blew out the smoke, and P.J. watched as it disappeared into nothingness.
“Peter is crazy about me.”
“And how do you feel about him?”
P.J. shrugged. “I can’t afford to feel anything, can I? I mean, my God, Susan, I’m pregnant!”
“Good thinking.”
“The worst part is he’s so nice, and I’ve done nothing but string him along. Now he thinks I don’t care anything about him, and that’s not true. Sometimes I think about how wonderful it would be if Peter married me. Sounds a little bit nuts, doesn’t it?”
“Why? Because the guy’s in love with you? Hell, no. But what about you? I don’t think you can begin to figure out how you feel about him until he knows the truth.”
P.J. felt a cold chill surge through her once again. “No,” she said. “It’s better this way.”
Susan flicked her cigarette over the balcony and stood up. “Suit yourself. But it seems to me you’re treating Peter no differently than Frank treated you. ‘Use ’em and dump ’em.’ ” She walked back to the front door. “I’ve got to go read the paper. Catch you later.”
God. Even Susan knew the truth.
If the hardest phone conversation P.J. had ever had was the one during which she’d told her mother she was pregnant, this had to be the second-hardest. It was still early, so she called him at home. A woman, probably his mother, answered. While P.J. waited for Peter to come to the phone, she tried to envision what Peter’s home looked like. It would be cozy and quaint, with checked gingham curtains at the windows and a bowl of fresh fruit on the kitchen table. Peter had told her he had three brothers: The table was probably a pine trestle table with sturdy benches to hold the muscular brood.
“Hello?”
The sound of his voice made her weak. “Peter?” P.J. whispered. “Peter, it’s P.J.”
“I know.”
Was that anger she heard? “Peter, I’m sorry about last night. Can I meet you tonight? I’d like to talk to you.”<
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Peter hesitated. P.J. fought an urge to hang up the phone and pretend she’d never called. He couldn’t find her; he didn’t know where she was living. She wouldn’t ever have to talk to him again.
“I have a better idea,” he said. “How about if I take the day off. We can go on a picnic or something.”
P.J. was glad, but a little bit afraid. He wanted to see her, but she would have to tell him the truth. A picnic would be nice, more relaxing. Maybe she wouldn’t hurt him quite as badly. “Yes, yes,” she said. “Where shall I meet you?”
“Why don’t I just pick you up?” he asked.
P.J. flinched. “Ah, no,” she stammered. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
He sighed. “Well, all right. Why don’t you meet me in front of the post office. Say, eleven-thirty?”
“I’ll be there, Peter.” He started to hang up, and P.J. added quickly, “Peter? What shall I bring?”
He paused, and at first P.J. thought he hadn’t heard her. Then he said, “Just yourself.” And he hung up.
Susan agreed to cover for her. If anyone asked where P.J. was, Susan was going to say she had walked to the town library to look up various colleges. Even Miss Taylor wouldn’t question that.
P.J. didn’t have to wait for Peter. His truck was already there. Good, she thought, now there’ll be no chance of good old Bud Wilson spotting me.
She climbed into the cab. Between them on the seat was a metal ice chest.
“Hi,” P.J. said. Well, she thought, it’s as good a way as any to start this conversation.
Peter put the truck into gear and pulled out onto the street. “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he said.
“I didn’t either,” P.J. answered.
“I’m sorry, P.J. I never should have tried to do that.”
P.J. played with the edge of the ice chest. She had planned to talk to him once they were comfortably settled on a blanket by the lake. But now her thoughts rushed out with abandon. “No, Peter, it was my fault. I led you on. In fact, I’ve been leading you on.”
Peter stopped at a red light.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” she continued.
Peter didn’t respond. The light changed, and he stepped on the gas.
“In fact, I haven’t been honest with you at all.” P.J. looked at his face and thought she saw him wince. “Oh, Peter, I care about you. A great deal. But I’m not really in a position to care about anyone right now.” She took a deep breath and stared at the dashboard. “Peter, I’m not here taking care of a sick aunt. I’m here because I’m staying at Larchwood Hall. I’m pregnant.” There. She had said it.
Peter’s head did not turn toward P.J. He continued looking straight out the window. Then P.J. sensed his hand leave the wheel and reach toward her. He placed it on top of hers. “I know.”
P.J. snapped her head around. “What?”
“This is a small town, P.J. I’ve known from the first night I met you who you are and where you’re living.”
They rode in silence for a few moments. P.J. was stunned. How could Peter have known? Why hadn’t he said anything to her? The more she thought about it, P.J. became angry. What did he think? That P.J. would be an easy lay because she was already one of “those” girls? Suddenly she felt duped. All this time she had felt guilty about using Peter. Ha! Who was using whom?
“Stop the truck,” P.J. commanded.
Peter pulled over to the curb and reached over to her. “Wait. Please,” he said.
“Wait for what? For you to tell me you understand? For you to say, ‘Hey, everyone makes mistakes’? For you to keep trying to get in my pants? Don’t patronize me, Peter. It won’t work.” P.J. opened the door and started to get out.
Peter grabbed her arm. “P.J., I love you.”
“Save it for someone who believes you.”
“P.J., I want to marry you.”
Images of pies cooling on the windowsill and home-canned vegetables sitting on shelves sprang to her mind. Children, little children, scurrying around her feet. The smell of a crackling fire and beef stew simmering on the stove.
“I want to take care of you and your baby. I want him to be our baby,” Peter continued.
P.J. looked at his wonderful face. Gone was the look of lust in those turquoise eyes. P.J. saw only a look of caring, of commitment. And she saw the innocence of an eighteen-year-old boy who had his entire life ahead of him, a life that should not be burdened with a family that wasn’t even his own.
“Peter,” she said gently, “I can’t let you marry me. After the baby’s born, I’m going back to college. I want to be a commercial artist, I want it very badly. I would be a lousy wife to anyone, and I guess I would be a lousy mother too.” P.J. felt she was lying—just a little—to save him from being hurt. But another part of her realized then that maybe, just maybe, she was telling the truth. Because if she had a career, a life of independence, P.J. would not have to worry about the Franks in the world who would hurt her, or the Peters she would eventually hurt.
CHAPTER 8
Jess
Ever since the kitten had been killed, Mrs. Hines had been nice to Jess. Well, as nice as it was possible for her to be, Jess guessed. She’d told her that anytime Jess wanted to use her old sewing machine, she was welcome, so today Jess had gone into town and picked up some fabric. She figured making maternity clothes would help take her mind off Richard. And besides she deserved a treat. It was August 25, and it was her sixteenth birthday.
She sat on the bare floor of the Hineses’ apartment over the garage, carefully pinning the tissue pattern to the rust-colored wool, thinking about her father, knowing he didn’t care that it was her birthday.
There had been only once when Jess had felt close to her father, had felt truly loved by him. She was six years old, and she was going to be in a ballet recital. Father had never taken an interest in Jess’s dancing, and though he always said he was too busy, Jess had sensed it was really because he thought dancing was silly. But on this one night, as Mother adjusted a braid of sparkling rhinestones on Jess’s pink net costume, Father had stepped into her dressing room.
“Are fathers allowed at these recitals?” he’d asked, with a half-pleasant look on his face that, even at her young age, Jess knew was the closest he could come to a smile.
Jess had wanted to shriek, Are you coming? Are you really coming? But instead, she’d lowered her eyes and whispered, “Yes, Father.”
What had previously been just another recital became a magical night for Jess. She’d danced the very best she could, and she’d even smiled for the audience the whole time just as she had been taught. After all, Father was there, and she wanted to make him proud; Father was there, so she wanted to be perfect.
Afterward, Jess overhead Mother tell her maid the only reason Father went was because his mistress was out of town. At the time Jess didn’t understand what that meant, and it didn’t matter. The closeness she’d felt that night was a feeling too wondrous to be darkened. Such a moment had never happened again.
“Ouch!” Jess said aloud, then looked down at a spot of blood trickling from her index finger. Then, as though the straight pin had stabbed her heart, Jess started to cry. She knew she’d lost whatever chance there might be for her father to love her on the day she defied him and got pregnant. And now Richard—the boy she’d given up her father’s love for—seemed to have disappeared. But Father was still alive. And Jess needed to see him.
The next morning Jess hurried through breakfast, then checked her gold watch. Finally it was nine o’clock.
“Miss Taylor, if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a private phone call,” she said. “To my father.”
“Certainly, dear. You may use the one in my office.”
“Thank you,” Jess quickly answered, and excused herself from the table, grateful it wasn’t her turn to help with the dishes.
She walked into the library and closed the French doors. She looked around the room
and thought it was not unlike the library in their Manhattan town house. Jess had always felt comfortable in that room, where the walls were thick with books and the smell of her father’s pipe tobacco lingered on the pages. But she was only comfortable there when she was alone; as soon as she heard Father’s footsteps in the hall, she’d sneak out so he wouldn’t catch her in there. Not that she been doing anything bad … it was just that the fewer confrontations with her father’s coldness there were, the better.
She went to the desk and sat down, staring at the black phone. This was the right thing to do. She was going to beg Father’s forgiveness. She was going to promise never to see Richard again. Slowly she picked up the receiver and dialed 0.
“Operator,” she heard.
“Yes. I’d like to call New York,” she said, then reeled off her father’s calling-card number from memory. Jess had no idea how many times she’d used that number, calling home from London to talk with her mother. Had she ever actually called her father? Well, certainly she’d called his secretary a number of times. “Please have Father put another five hundred dollars in my account.” “Please tell Father to have the chauffeur pick me up at Kennedy at seven-thirty.” “Please tell Father I opened an account at Harrods.” Never “Hello, Father, I just called to say hi.”
“Thornwald and McCrutcheon,” the sharp-tongued receptionist answered.
“Mr. Bates, please.”
“I’ll connect you.”
Jess’s heart raced. Would her father talk to her? If he did, what would she say? What would he say?
“Mr. Bates’s office,” his secretary said.
“Margaret, hello. It’s Jessica. Jessica Bates.”
There was a slight pause. “Hello, Jessica. What can I do for you?” Aside from the hesitation, there was no tone in the woman’s voice that led Jess to think anything was different, that Margaret knew.
“Is my father there?”
The voice on the other end of the line paused again. “Not right now.”
Her heart sank. “When do you expect him?”
