by Janet Dailey
"Two Thanksgiving dinners in one year. You are lucky, Deborah," Frank remarked as he took her plate and passed it to Zane who was carving the turkey.
"Yes, I am."
"What is your family doing today?" Tom asked, helping himself to a cranberry-orange salad.
"My mother is working. My brother is visiting his girl friend in Boston, and my sister is at her husband's parents'."
"I'm glad you are with us," Madelaine inserted. "Nobody should have to spend the holidays alone."
"Would you care for white or dark meat, Deborah?'' Zane asked the question. While in the company of others, he adopted their habit of using her given name, but his cool tone kept her at a distance just the same.
"White, please."
"Ethan always wanted the drumstick. Remember, Zane?" The thin melodic voice of Sylvia Wilding, who hadn't spoken since she sat down at the table, swept an instant silence into the room.
The carving blade hovered above the browned breast of the turkey. A muscle tightened in Zane's jaw as he resumed the carving. "Yes, I remember."
"Most little boys do like the drumstick best," she continued with a dreamlike expression in her haunted eyes. "Ethan never could eat it all, of course, but we always gave him one. Did I tell you I saw Anna Blackstone the other day, Zane? Her little girl, Susan, was the same age as Ethan. She's eighteen now. Such a pretty thing. You wouldn't recognize her."
"No, I probably wouldn't," he agreed without looking to the opposite end of the long table at the dissipated woman who was his wife.
"Have some sweet potatoes, Sylvia." Madelaine attempted to divert the conversation.
Sylvia didn't even see the casserole dish that was offered to her. Deborah's heart twisted at the forlorn look that passed over the drawn features.
"Ethan would be eighteen if he was alive." Tortured blue eyes focused their pain on Frank Hayes, seated on Sylvia's left. "I miss him. I miss my baby." Her voice broke on the last word. As if in pain, she clasped her arms across her stomach and began to rock gently back and forth in her chair. "I miss my baby so," she whispered over and over, her voice growing softer each time until finally only her lips were moving.
Madelaine pushed her chair from the table. The grimly resigned look she cast at Zane indicated to Deborah that the incident was not unusual. Probably more the rule than the exception. The brunette excused herself from the table and walked to Sylvia's chair.
"Come with me, Sylvia." Madelaine took hold of the rocking shoulders and helped the small blonde to her feet.
"I'll help you," Zane offered grimly, laying the carving knife and fork down.
But Madelaine shook her head in refusal. "It's better if you don't come, Zane."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Deborah gained the impression that Zane's presence somehow upset his wife. She remembered Sylvia's strident command that summer night long ago, for Zane not to touch her.
In a low voice Frank told his wife, "If you need me, just call out." Madelaine nodded a mute acknowledgment as she guided Sylvia out of the dining room. Sylvia's lips continued their silent movement. She appeared to be in some trancelike state.
Everyone's appetite seemed to vanish with Sylvia's departure. They went through the motions of eating, but no one did justice to the excellent fare before them, the incident casting a pallor on the feast of Thanksgiving. Afterward, Zane apologized to Jessie, the gray-haired cook.
"Aayah, it couldn't be helped," she agreed in her hard New England drawl. "But it's just that many more meals you're going to be having of turkey stew and casserole and turkey sandwiches."
No one complained at the prospect.
ON SUNDAY of that Thanksgiving weekend, Deborah wandered into the informal morning room where everyone usually breakfasted. Only Madelaine was at the white table, sipping a cup of coffee.
"Good morning," she greeted Deborah with a quick smile.
"Good morning. Where is everyone?" Deborah sat in one of the white matching chairs, facing the window that looked onto the courtyard.
"Frank went to church. Zane is swimming, Tom must still be in bed. Coffee?" She held the spout of an insulated coffeepot above an empty cup.
"Yes. How is Mrs. Wilding this morning?" She hadn't seen Sylvia since Thanksgiving Day.
"She's talking again, but her depression is so deep," Madelaine sighed. "It's pitiful."
"Yes," Deborah fully agreed, then mused, "It's unfortunate they didn't have more children. Maybe she would have gotten over Ethan's death if they had." In a way it hurt to say that, but it was the thought on her mind so she said it.
"After Ethan was born, Sylvia couldn't have any more children. Frank was working for Zane then. He's told me how obsessive Sylvia was when it came to her son. She didn't want to let him out of her sight even as a baby. Zane had to force her to go out in the evenings without Ethan. It's a tragic irony that Sylvia was the one who was supposed to be watching Ethan when he drowned."
"Does she blame herself for what happened?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Madelaine shook her head, staring into the black surface of her coffee. "She had made Ethan her reason for living. When he died, I think she stopped caring about anything else."
"Even Zane," Deborah murmured.
"Yes, even Zane. A year after Ethan died, Zane tried to convince her that they should adopt a child. By then she had already started hitting the bottle. There wasn't any agency that would let them adopt a child when the mother was an alcoholic and mentally unsound. But Sylvia refused to discuss it with him. To this day, she won't even look at or talk to another child. She won't even acknowledge that they are in the same room."
"I suppose she thinks she would be betraying her son's memory if she let herself love—or even like—another child," Deborah suggested and sipped at her coffee.
"Possibly," Madelaine conceded. "She is an alcoholic, but her problems are much deeper than that. I really have to admire Zane for the way he has stood behind Sylvia, never hating her for what she has done to herself and him." Her brown gaze slid to Deborah. "He is committed to her. You do know that?"
Stiffening, Deborah knew exactly what that look and that remark meant. "I've been warned about that before—by Tom, then Zane, and now you. Who's next? Frank?" Her question was tainted by amused bitterness. Obviously she wasn't very good at concealing her attraction to Zane.
"I hope you aren't going to pay any attention to those warnings," Madelaine's response was unexpected. "Zane needs someone like you. He can't keep living in a vacuum without love or without loving anyone. And I . . . I don't think that look I see in your eyes every now and then is one-sided."
"Maybe not." Her smile was jerky and wry. "But, as everyone has pointed out, there is no future in it."
"No one who is aware of the circumstances would condemn you or Zane for having an affair," Madelaine insisted. "As a matter of fact, every one of Zane's friends would approve of any woman who could bring some happiness into his life. He deserves it, if anyone does."
"Yes. Although I've never pictured myself in the role of the 'other woman."' Deborah wasn't able to meet the older woman's gaze, but it was a relief to be able to discuss her feelings indirectly.
"Deborah—" Madelaine clasped her hand and squeezed it with comforting reassurance "—love is a blessing, not a sin. Knowing Zane, you wouldn't be the 'other woman.' You would be the only woman."
"I wish . . . " But Deborah couldn't find the words to express what she was feeling.
"I know." The brunette laughed to break the serious atmosphere. "You wish I would shut up so you could have some breakfast. There's bacon, eggs, and toast in the warming pans on the buffet. Help yourself." Pushing her chair away from the table, she stood up. "I'll even let you eat in peace without me chattering in your ear. I have to check on Sylvia. See you later."
Deborah sat for several minutes after Madelaine had left, digesting all that had been said before she bothered with breakfast.
Chapter Nine
"FRANK AND I a
re putting the Christmas tree up tonight. Would you like to help us decorate it, Deborah?" Madelaine passed her the platter of roast beef.
"I'd love to. It's been years since I've done that—not since I lived at home," she admitted.
"We want to get the house all decorated before the dinner party tomorrow night. It is the Christmas season, two weeks removed," the brunette reasoned. "You can help, too, Tom. We'll put you in charge of stringing the evergreen boughs and the holly."
"Not the mistletoe, though," Frank inserted and smiled at his wife. "That's strictly my department."
"Which reminds me, Zane," Madelaine glanced down the table at the man sitting at the head. "With all the activity going on tomorrow night, I don't think I should leave Sylvia alone. So I won't be able to act as your hostess for the party. Deborah can stand in for me."
Deborah stared at her for a frozen moment, stunned by the bomb that had fallen. Then her widened gray eyes darted a look at Zane. He regarded her silently, a faintly warm light in his clear blue eyes.
"Would you mind?" he asked quietly.
"I'll help out, if you like," she agreed.
"It's just an informal get-together of some of my friends," he explained, sensing her hesitancy.
"None of them is as formidable as businessmen you've come in contact with, Deborah," Tom added, then winked, "and I can promise that none of them will ask you to polka."
"I like your friends already." She cast a laughing, sidelong glance at Zane. Her pulse quickened at the way he was looking at her, running his gaze over her russet hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. When his look lingered on her smiling mouth, Deborah had to look away, and Frank provided the perfect excuse. "Hey! It's snowing outside!"
Big, fat flakes drifted to the ground beyond the windowpanes. Most of the flakes melted, but a thin covering of white was beginning to form. An outside light laid a bright path to illuminate the snowflakes against the gray black backdrop of night.
"Our first snow. Maybe we'll have a white Christmas this year," Madelaine added hopefully. "Build a fire in the fireplace tonight, Frank."
An hour later, a fire was blazing and crackling over dry logs. Madelaine had put on an album of Christmas carols to fill the living room with music. A tall, heavily branched Scotch pine tree towered in its tree stand in front of the paned windows facing out to the cul-de-sac driveway. The tree lights were all strung and Frank was plugging them in to make sure they all worked. Little fairy lights blinked on and off in perfect unison. Madelaine stood back and clapped. Deborah had a garland of silver foil draped on her arms so she had to voice her approval.
"It's beautiful, Frank."
"Don't praise him too much or it will go to his head," Tom warned with a teasing grin.
"You get back to work arranging those boughs on the mantel," Madelaine ordered, waving him about his business. "We'll take care of the tree."
It took the three of them—Deborah, Madelaine and Frank—to wind the bright garland around the massive Christmas tree. Deborah's glance kept straying to the walnut doors. Zane was in the next room, working. Her enjoyment of the task would have been complete if he had been there helping them. There had been times in the past two weeks when Zane had betrayed so much with just a look. At times he even acted friendly toward her. But he had certainly done and said nothing to encourage all the foolish yearnings that had begun to dominate her.
"Here are the Christmas ornaments." Madelaine set two large boxes on a side table and opened them. "You two get started while I see how Sylvia is."
"I'll check on her for you, honey," Frank volunteered.
The brunette hesitated, then agreed, "All right." As he left the room, Deborah and Madelaine began hanging the brightly colored and decorated Christmas balls on the boughs of the tree. One box was soon emptied, but the second one went more slowly as they tried to find and fill in the empty patches. Deborah was stretching to reach a high branch devoid of any ornament when she heard someone enter the room. Automatically she presumed it was Frank returning, since he had been gone quite awhile. She couldn't quite reach the branch. When she tried to make it that last quarter inch, she lost her balance. A steel band hooked itself around her waist to keep her from falling against the tree.
"You almost knocked the tree over." Zane's huskily amused voice came right beside her ear.
His arm had stayed around her waist. Deborah was certain her knees would have buckled if it hadn't been for his continuing support. Her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of his touch as she tried to look backward to his face. All she could see was the point of his chin.
"I need to be a few inches taller to reach the higher limbs," she offered in defense of her near accident.
"I'll hang that for you. Where do you want it?" His arm released her from his hold to take the Christmas ornament from her hand. She hadn't even been aware that she still had it.
"On that branch." Deborah pointed to the one. Zane reached it easily. With his height advantage, he could reach all of the places that neither she nor Madelaine had been able to reach. She took three more ornaments from the box. "Put this one on the branch just above the blue ball," she instructed.
There was a laughing glint in his dark blue eyes, but he didn't object. When it was hung, he held out his hand for the next one. She debated briefly with Madelaine whether the green one would look better near the red one or the orange.
"By the red one," Deborah decided finally, and conveyed the order to Zane.
"You like telling me what to do for a change, don't you?" he mocked.
"I could get used to it," she admitted saucily.
His gaze caught and held hers for a breathtaking second, a charge message of awareness flashing between them. In the fireplace, a log burned through and collapsed in a shower of sparks. It broke the silent communication between them and Zane turned to the tree to hang the ornament.
"That's the last one," Madelaine announced. "Tinsel time. Come on, Tom. You can help."
He had finished arranging the nativity scene inside the garland of evergreen boughs and holly leaves woven along the edge of the fireplace mantel. He had been sitting in a wing chair watching their efforts. At Madelaine's prompting, he rose to join them. She divided the packets of long, silver foil among the four of them. They tossed it on the tree until it shimmered and gleamed in the multicolored blinking lights.
Stepping back, they all paused to admire the finished product. The mighty pine tree was bedecked in holiday finery, glittering and sparkling, just waiting for gifts to be spread beneath its limbs. Something brushed her hair and Deborah turned.
"You had tinsel in your hair." Zane held up the thin strip of foil to show her. With a glance she acknowledged its existence, before her gaze was compelled to return to his face.
Tom murmured something and Madelaine breathed a hurried, "Ssh." Deborah saw Zane's gaze flicker upward and followed it to the sprig of mistletoe dangling above them.
"It seems we are well and truly caught in the old holiday custom . . . "
As his murmuring voice hesitated, Deborah warned him, "Don't you dare call me Miss Holland."
"Deborah," he finished, a light dancing in his eyes.
He lightly brushed his mouth over hers and Deborah felt him tremble. But Zane didn't increase the pressure of his kiss before he lifted his head. She wanted to cry out in frustration, but her expressive gray eyes said what her voice couldn't.
"Cocoa time." Frank returned to the room, carrying a large tray with five steaming mugs of hot chocolate balanced on its surface. "I stopped by the kitchen and persuaded Jessie to fix this for us. She even volunteered a plate of her Christmas cookies."
"You certainly timed it right," Madelaine declared and cleared the empty boxes off the side table so he could set the tray on it. "We just finished the tree."
"It looks great. I knew if I waited long enough you would have it all done," he grinned.
Taking a mug of cocoa and a cookie, Deborah curled up on the alpaca rug in
front of the fireplace. Zane chose the chair that flanked the fireplace on her side, while Frank and Madelaine sat on the sofa that faced it. Tom remained standing, leaning a shoulder against the mantel and munching on a cookie.
"Does your family usually celebrate on Christmas or Christmas Eve?" Madelaine asked, directing her question at Deborah.
"On Christmas."
"I presume you are planning to go home for Christmas." Zane's curt statement held an undercurrent of challenge. Deborah reacted with prickles of defiance that she tried to disguise. She shifted her position on the rug to bring his chair into her view, tucking her feet beneath her to sit cross-legged.
"Yes, I am." Her gray eyes coolly met his shuttered look, the hard-grained lines of his face hinting at a grim displeasure. "My youngest brother, Ronnie, has a furlough to come home for the holidays. Since my mother had to work on Thanksgiving, she'll have Christmas day off. I know Christmas falls in the middle of the week this year, but it isn't a long drive from here to New Haven. I can leave on Christmas Eve and come back late Christmas day, which shouldn't interfere too greatly with your work schedule."
"I wasn't suggesting that you couldn't have the time off," he clipped out the response.
"Oh?" The taunting inflection of the one word doubted him.
"I was thinking of the heavy traffic."
"I'm a competent driver," Deborah insisted. His gaze slid to the small, red scar on her left arm. "That accident was not my fault!" she flared.
"Accidents rarely are the victim's fault, but they get hurt just the same," Zane countered in a stiffly controlled voice.
"I'm willing to take the risk."
There was an impatient thinning of his mouth. "You always are. I don't think you ever listen to anyone."
"I don't know about that," Deborah retaliated. "You told me to stay away from you and I have been." She saw the fiery blue glitter of his gaze arc from her to remind her they weren't alone in the room. Her temper wouldn't be silenced by their quiet, onlooking faces. "I'm not saying anything they haven't guessed. They've warned me about you, too."
