For All Their Lives

by Fern Michaels

  “Was put together with spit, glue, and Silly Putty. He made the choice, Luke. It’s okay to cry.” She sobbed. “I think that’s half our problem. We didn’t get a chance to grieve. We had no one to grieve with. Now, we have each other. Am I right?” Casey asked in a choked voice. Luke continued to shake. She held him tight, bringing him as close to her as she could. She stroked his head, he stroked hers. She kissed his wet cheek, he kissed hers. They touched and whispered between sobs of anger and frustration. Together they punched and gouged the ruined pillows until they fell against one another, exhausted.

  Casey’s lips trembled as she leaned down to kiss Luke on the lips, her arms cradling his head against her chest. It was a sweet kiss, full of sadness and relief. Moments later she whispered, “No, no, I don’t want you to see . . . I have so many scars. Please, don’t look at me. I can’t bear it. Oh yes, yes, I do want you, but my body is so ugly, I can’t bear it, Luke.”

  “Shhh, it makes no difference. How can you even think . . . don’t cry, please don’t cry. I loved you from the first moment I saw you. Shhh, don’t cry, Casey, please. It’s all right for me to love you, and I do. I can accept anything as long as I know you’re alive and well.” Casey cried harder, her sobs muffled against his chest. He kissed away the tears and tasted his own on her lips.

  “I want to make love to you,” Luke whispered hoarsely.

  “Oh yes, Luke, yes, yes,” she whispered against his cheek.

  The gray day with the driving rain against the windowpanes turned to night. Only the rustling of their bodies against the remains of the rainbow-colored cushions, and the soft sound of their murmuring, broke the silence. She nestled against him, burrowing her head into the hollow of his neck, the silky strands of her pale blond hair falling over his shoulder. She breathed the scent of him, mingled with the fragrance of her own perfume. Her fingers teased the light fur of his chest hair. Her leg, thrown intimately over his, felt the lean, sinewy muscles of his thigh.

  They were like light and shadow—she silver, the color of moonlight, and he dark, like the night. He held her, his gentle hands soothing her, promising silently all the things lovers promise.

  One moment his arms cradled her, the next they became her prison—hard, strong, inescapable. She felt the wildness and loved him for it. She felt a sense of power to know she could arouse these instincts in him. She yielded to his need for her, welcoming his weight upon her, flexing her thighs to bring him closer.

  His hands were in her hair, on her breasts, on the soft flesh of her inner thighs. He stirred her, demanded of her, rewarded her with the adoring attention of his lips to those territories he wished to claim. And when he possessed her, it was with a joyful abandon that evoked a like response in her: hard, fast, then becoming slower and sweeter.

  She murmured with pleasure and gave him caresses he loved. Release was there, within their grasp, but like two moths romancing a flame, they played in the heat and postponed that exquisite instant when they would plunge into the inferno.

  He held her then, soothing her back down from erotic heights.

  It was the best of all times, this moment after lovemaking, when all barriers were down and satiny skin melted into masculine hardness. This closeness, Casey thought, was the true communion of lovers who had brought peace and satisfaction to one another.

  Casey burrowed deeper into the nest of Luke’s arms. He drew her closer and she smiled. She didn’t want the moment to end. This man who came to her out of nowhere when she needed him the most. Right now, this very second, if he asked her to die for him, she would. He seemed good for her in every way, understanding her, accepting her, even to the scars she would carry for the rest of her life.

  “Do you want to talk about Mac now?” Luke asked quietly.

  “He betrayed me, Luke, he lied to me,” she said quietly. “There’s no need to talk about Mac, not now, not ever. There’s no place in my life for Mac, and there isn’t a place for me in his. Let’s leave it at that and not spoil what we have.”

  “You’re the boss,” Luke said lightly. He recoiled a moment later in mock horror when two fur balls pounced on the mound of pillows.

  Casey thought she’d never been happier than in that moment as she watched Luke tussle with the Yorkie and the tiger cat. The animals loved his long arms as he gently pushed and shoved them, trying to teach them to roll over. “Treats for everyone,” he shouted boyishly as he walked naked back to the kitchen for cookies. Casey watched him and wondered if she had the nerve to stand up, to expose her nakedness and her scars to this man who had just made love to her. She made her decision the moment Luke walked back into the living room, the prancing puppy and kitten trailing behind him. She stood up, a look of panic on her face. He smiled.

  “They don’t matter,” he said gently. “Haven’t you learned anything from me?”

  “More than you’ll ever know. Last one in the shower stinks!” she called gaily.

  They scrubbed and soaked one another, touching and kissing under the pelting water, but they didn’t make love. “Later,” Luke said against her cheek. “Later, we’ll do it like normal people, in a bed with covers where I don’t freeze my ass off. Don’t you have any heat in this goddamn apartment?”

  “It was cold out there, wasn’t it?” Casey giggled.

  “Damn right.” He pushed her gently out of the shower. “Get dressed and make breakfast. And feed those animals before they tear this place apart again.”

  When the bathroom door closed, Luke leaned against the shower wall, the steam and driving spray covering him like a dense gray fog. He took great, heaving gulps of steamy air into his lungs as he cringed against the wall. She’d said scars. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for the ravages of her young body. He could have killed for what was done to her, but anger was useless now. He’d learned that the hard way.

  Luke stepped out of the shower into the steamy bathroom. He’d found her again. How was he going to walk away, go back to his empty life in Pennsylvania? Their lovemaking had been a spontaneous thing that grew out of their need to draw something from each other. Now, what was he supposed to do? Stick around and . . . what? Go back and . . . what? Was this a “fling” for both of them? He’d heard his sister use the word once. He didn’t like the sound of it. It didn’t have any notion of permanence in it. Another day. He’d stay another day, maybe two. They still had a lot of talking to do. He wanted to tell her about the support group he started in Pittsburgh and suggest that she start one here in New York. He’d offer to help.

  As he dressed he could hear music. “As Time Goes By.” He didn’t like the title any better than he liked the word fling. It was the music box. Was she trying to tell him something? His insecurity started to eat at him. What they had . . . what they shared was a moment. Mac Carlin, no matter what she said, would always be between them.

  His jeans were so worn they felt like soft cotton. He did a hop and a skip, settled his rear end into the back, then zipped them up. His sweatshirt, which was just as worn and soft, felt as comfortable as a security blanket. He wondered what he would do when they finally wore out. Some things could never be replaced, he thought sadly. Just like some people could never be replaced. Christ, he was stupid. Come to think of it, he’d always been stupid. “What you gotta do, Farrell, is get your shit all in one sock and . . . Fuck it,” he mumbled, as he pulled on his socks.

  The day was wonderful, the evening better, the night stupendous. “I have to go back today, Casey. I’m giving a speech at the Rotary tomorrow. It’s one of those brunch things. I can’t get out of it.”

  “I understand. Can you come back? I don’t mean right away, but sometime soon. Or I can come and visit Squirrel Hill.”

  “Well, sure. Whenever you want. I’m not going anywhere.” He could feel her draw away from him, grow rigid. “Ma Bell is a wonderful thing, Casey. Even in Squirrel Hill we have telephones. I want us both to think real seriously about what went on here. Speaking strictly for myself, I�
�ve never been happier. . .”

  “But . . . What’s the but, Luke?” Casey asked coolly. She’d known it. God, how could she have been so stupid? First Mac, then Alan, and now this . . . this doctor who said he didn’t care about her scars. Like hell he didn’t.

  Luke leaned up on one elbow. “There is no but. What’s wrong? What the hell did I say?”

  “It’s what you didn’t say. This was all . . . all therapy. Well, I don’t need it, and I don’t need you either,” Casey said, leaping out of the bed.

  “Wait just a damn minute. Therapy? Where did you get that notion? I don’t get it. Is this your way of booting me out of here? Jesus, all you had to say was go and I’d have gone. I thought . . . Come back here,” he said. “That’s an order, Casey.”

  She was in her robe now, her scars invisible when she perched on the side of the bed. “Look, maybe I am touchy, a bit insecure, but I have good reason to be. I asked you if you would come back here. I offered to visit you. ‘Well, sure.’ That was your response?”

  “Listen to me, goddamnit. I’m not up on the social ways of lovers. It’s been a long time for me. The plain damn truth is I don’t know how to act. I’ve been afraid of saying the wrong thing. You’re vulnerable, and so am I. This might be hard for you to believe, but I’ve never been in love before. If I screwed up, I’m sorry. And furthermore, I won’t be a stand-in for Mac Carlin, no matter how much I respect the guy. Yeah, what he did was shabby, but you’re forgetting I saw him and witnessed what he went through that Christmas when you were sick. He loved you, Casey. He’s not out of your system, and by going on with this . . . this new identity thing, you can never resolve it. Both of us need time to think about all this. I meant it when I said I loved you. However,” his voice turned cool and aloof, “I didn’t hear you say the same thing to me. No, no, don’t say it now. Get my point. There’s a possibility that somewhere down the road we might be able to salvage this in some way, but not now. I think I should leave and give you some breathing room. Call me a cab, Mary Ashley.”

  “You’re disappointed in me. I can see it in your face. Can’t you at least try to understand why I did it?”

  “It takes guts, Mary.”

  “That’s all I’ve heard for two long years. Guts. Guts and then more guts. I’m a person. I hurt, I cry, I feel things. I did what I thought was best for me at the time,” Casey said bitterly.

  Luke gripped her by the shoulders and drew her to her feet. “How in the hell did something so wonderful turn so sour in a matter of minutes?” he demanded. “I love you. You care for me. We were both spooked, and by mutual agreement we joined together. Now I’m getting dressed and I’m going back home. I’ll always be here for you. All you have to do is call me the way you did the other day. And the reason is that I’ve loved you from the first. This is the end of it. Keep in touch.”

  Fifteen minutes later he was gone.

  Chapter 21

  MAC CARLIN LOOKED at the small calendar on his desk. He crossed off the date. April 30, 1972. It was spring again. He tried, but he couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing at this time last year. Existing. He opened a drawer to pull out last year’s calendar to see if he’d made any notes. He was disappointed. There were none.

  He’d had four invitations to various brunches and dinners today, but, as always, he had declined. He preferred to spend his weekends in his guest cottage going over his mail, taking care of his investments, riding, and hiking with the dogs. It was a shitful life, he told himself over and over again, and he was no closer now to finding Lily’s son than he had been when he first started. If there was one thing he hated in life, it was dealing with a foreign government.

  Outside in the crisp spring air he could hear Jenny laughing as her mother held her on a bicycle held up with training wheels. He leaned closer to the window. He didn’t see much of Alice these days. In fact he’d hardly said more than a dozen words to her in as many months. She’d been so grateful when he turned over the records to the foundation he’d set up for children like Jenny. That’s where she and Jenny now spent most of their time. It was good for both of them. He knew his mother would have been pleased at the way he’d been using her legacy.

  Mac’s pencil tapped on the desktop. Sundays, he thought, were days of reflection, not that there was much to reflect upon, but he did it anyway. He thought of his father and how they’d grown even farther apart. Just this past week he’d heard a rumor that Marcus was retiring. He didn’t believe it for a minute. The rumor circulated periodically when something didn’t go his father’s way. The old man would hang in there till the day he died.

  Thoughts of Sadie and Bill always made him smile. He hadn’t seen either of them for several months. They were busy handling the bar during the week, and spending weekends in Perth Amboy, where they worked in the bait and tackle shop. Sadie admitted that she wore a bib coverall, but it was a silky blue creation bearing a designer label. They were delightfully happy, as were Benny and his little family. Which left only him. He wasn’t unhappy. He’d managed to have several discreet affairs that meant nothing but sexual release for both himself and his partner.

  Mac’s arm shot out to remove the screen from the window next to his desk. He called to Alice, who waved cheerfully. Jenny squealed, pedaling as fast as she could. It looked to Mac as if they were having a good time. He watched as Alice helped Jenny from the bicycle and, holding her hand, walked over to his open window.

  “It’s too stuffy to be indoors today, Mac.”

  “How would you and Jenny like to have dinner with me tonight?” Mac asked.

  “I think that would be nice. Do you mean going out . . . or up at—”

  “Here. In my kitchen. Spaghetti,” he said, pointing to Jenny, who giggled.

  “Like lots,” the little girl said, smiling widely.

  “She does. That and jelly sandwiches. Maybe one for dessert. What time?” she asked.

  “I know Jenny likes to eat early. Six is okay with me.”

  “All right. Thanks, Mac. Jenny will enjoy it, I’m sure. She’s always asking if she can come over.”

  “You never told me that,” Mac accused.

  “What was the point? You said no one could come here unless they were invited. It’s all right, really it is. Jenny is easily distracted. Ah, Mac, I think I should tell you she makes up stories about this little house to the aide who works with her at the foundation. She thinks you have rooms full of balloons and all kinds of all-day suckers in red jars. She tells the aide you have butterflies on the walls and that you color pictures for her of happy-faced clowns. They think she has a wonderful imagination. She can cut pictures out of books now and paste them in other books. It’s such a wonderful place, Mac. She’s made friends with the other children, and there are days when she doesn’t want to go home. I was going to talk to you about . . . is there any possibility that we could add another wing?”

  “Whenever you want, Alice. You’re in charge. Do whatever you think should be done.”

  “Really, Mac, it will be all right?” Alice beamed. How pretty she is, Mac thought. So womanly, and she smelled wonderful. His wife. “Thank you, thank you very much. I guess I’ll see you at dinner then.”

  “Six o’clock. Don’t get dressed up, okay?”

  “Okay,” Alice called over her shoulder.

  Mac’s shoulders slumped when he closed the screen. They had their own life now, he thought with a tinge of jealousy. The only thing either Jenny or his wife needed from him was his money, which he gave gladly and willingly.

  Mac’s thoughts took him to Lily’s son, Eric, who would now be four years old. Jenny was five. Where had the years gone? His eyes went to the special box he kept on the edge of his desk. In it he kept all his correspondence concerning Lily and her son. Last Christmas he’d received his first real news about the child in a letter written to him by a nun in Thailand. He’d stuffed it into his suit pocket back in the summer, and Yody had found it a week or so after New Year’
s. He’d written right away, but the letter had come back on Valentine’s Day. The orphanage or the nuns had moved on. For months now he’d been sending letters all over Thailand and Vietnam trying to track down Sister Anna Marie. She had to be easier to find than one small boy among thousands. Yesterday a letter had finally arrived from Sister Anna Marie saying she knew where the boy was and that he was well. She said that when it was possible, she would see about having his picture taken and would send it on to Mac. He wasn’t certain the boy had been in Thailand to begin with. One letter had said yes, another had said no. The American embassy said he’d been airlifted with his mother, but a letter months later had claimed that Lily Gia was dead. He no longer knew what to believe, what was real, what was pure guesswork. It seemed inconceivable that a nun would lie. Mix-ups occurred. All infants looked alike. What would make Lily’s son stand out and be remembered? Think positive and believe, he cautioned himself. Always believe.

  The dogs followed Mac as he made his way to the kitchen. Yody was stirring a bubbling pot of red sauce on the stove, and tantalizing smells circled the room. “We’re going to have two guests for dinner, Yody,” Mac said, clearing his throat. “Ah, is there any way we can have some balloons and a few . . . some other kinds of decorations?”

  “That would depend, Señor Mac, on what you have in mind. I myself can go to the drugstore and buy balloons. Today is Sunday,” she said quietly.

  “Well, Jenny seems to think this house is . . . magical. I know it sounds kind of silly, but she’s just a child. Her mother casually mentioned that Jenny . . . has made up these little stories, and she doesn’t want her to be disappointed.” He realized he was speaking a lie the minute the words were out of his mouth. He was the one who didn’t want to disappoint the little girl.

  “Very well, Señor Mac, I will see what I can do. Who is to blow up these balloons, señor?” she asked, untying her apron and reaching for her purse, which she kept on a shelf over the sink. It was a straw affair, with colored flowers woven in it, and huge as a satchel. It also appeared quite heavy. As always, he was curious about its contents. Jenny would love it. Alice said she had fourteen different “purses,” which she daily stuffed with treasures.