When She Falls

by Jessie Clever

  It’s what then?

  That she’d suddenly realized she was having a wicked adventure right along with her friends? She looked quickly over at Cam as if he could read her thoughts and realized he was still eyeing her cautiously.

  “It’s nothing,” she said hastily. “I just…realized something. That’s all. No big fucking deal.”

  Cam cast another glance at her. “No big deal,” he murmured. “Really, Lydia Baxter?”

  She felt his glance like a blow to her stomach. She wanted to bend over and bury her head in her Italian leather tote. But instead, she sat up, leaning to the side to better face him. “I think we should talk about logistics this weekend.”

  That eyebrow wiggled at her again. “Logistics?” he said. “Lydia, if this is about the other night—”

  “It’s not about the other night. This is about us making this weekend work and getting Evelyn Hatfield to sign on the dotted line.” She made a writing motion with one hand against the palm of the other and let it linger with a dramatic swoosh. “And then maybe, we’ll talk about the other night.”

  “What does that mean?” Cam asked.

  Lydia looked out the window as the monotonous landscape of the highway rushed past them.

  “It means I have too much on my mind right now, Cam,” she said, the push going out of her voice. She looked back him, her ponytail brushing the headrest of her seat. “And I just need you to be…you.”

  Again, she felt that pinch in her chest, the pinch that came with an awakening, a realization of something that was clearly in front of her all along but that she had failed to see, to truly understand.

  It was just like Cam to give her space when she needed it. He’d given her a whole goddamned ocean once when she’d asked for it. She watched him, her mind flying like the passing landscape out the window.

  “Will there ever be a time when you do not have too much to think about?”

  Lydia blinked at her husband, noting the way the sun through the windshield lit the fine hairs along his knuckles as he cradled the steering wheel.

  “I don’t know,” she said, the honesty of her words robbing her of breath.

  They drove in silence for several minutes, the miles disappearing beneath the rolling wheels of her car. They passed the next exit before she remembered what she had meant to say.

  “This weekend, Cam.” She looked over at him. “There’s to be a social this afternoon. Like a happy hour but with croquet or something. Tonight is a dinner. Some sort of luau, I think.” She paused long enough to look over at her husband. “I have no idea where Evelyn Hatfield gets her ideas for events, but it’s her birthday and if she wants a croquet social and a luau she can have it.” She returned her gaze to the road, mulling over the weekend’s itinerary. “I think my best chance at getting Rebecca alone is tonight at the luau—”

  “No, I think that’s a bad idea.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked as his words shattered the visual she was building in her mind of how the night would go.

  “You don’t want Rebecca Hatfield alone. It will give her too much time to think. Too much time with herself. You need her in a crowd, having fun, being loud, being…young.”

  Lydia looked away from him at the word, her mind traveling to a night five years ago where his mind likely traveled. They had been young once. They had been in the crowd having fun. They had been married after that, so maybe Cam was right.

  “Does Rebecca strike you as a person who is loud and fun?”

  Cam smiled at her, a devilish grin she would have slapped off his face if he hadn’t been driving. “Neither do you, and we both know that’s not true.”

  He had a point.

  “Tonight then.” Lydia settled her palms against her thighs in resolution. “Tonight, we get Rebecca excited about the luau or whatever it is and get her excited about being married—”

  “By acting like the excited, in-love married couple that we are,” Cam interjected.

  Lydia frowned, her brows pulling into a dip between her eyes. “You know, sometimes you remind me a little too much of Spencer Tracy.”

  “Who?”

  “Spencer Tracy,” she repeated. “You know, the actor. And I’m Katharine Hepburn, and you’re doing all you can to drive me nuts. It’s a constant showing of one of their movies between the two of us.”

  Cam tossed a glance at her. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” His voice was soft and yet loud in the small space of the car.

  Lydia wanted to look away as she often did when something was said that made her uncomfortable. But she couldn’t look away. Not this time.

  “Cam,” she said, even though he was already listening to her. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened had you not left?”

  The car lurched so suddenly Lydia reached out a hand to steady herself against the dash. Her eyes darted to the road, searching for the reason for Cam’s sudden reaction. There was nothing there but open road, but Cam continued to slow the car abruptly, the ticking of a turning signal filling the air as the car veered right, traveling down an off ramp towards a rest area.

  “Cam?” Her gaze now moved back to his face, taking in the rigid line of his jaw, the suddenly terse pinch to his eyes. “Cam,” she said, more softly now and coaxing.

  The car came to a complete stop beside one of the gas pumps lined up along the side of the rest area, and Cam slammed the car into neutral, killing the engine and wrenching up the parking brake. Lydia wanted to lean back, open the door and spring from the car, but she sat transfixed, her mind reeling at this suddenly angry Cam. Her deliciously soft, nuzzlingly good husband was gone, and in his place was some mad man ready to pounce on her. He leaned in, one thick finger pointing at her chest.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Ms. Baxter,” he said. “I didn’t leave. You threw me out.” He withdrew his finger and reached for his buckle. “We need gas.” He was out of the car before Lydia could even remember where she had put her tongue.

  Eleven

  Lockridge of Stockbridge was an old, looming manor house, set high in the hills surrounding Stockbridge, Massachusetts. As Lydia’s car wound its way up the curving gravel drive, Cam’s mind flashed to what the estate must have been like in days gone by. He pictured carts pulled by work horses, slipping against the gravel as they struggled to make purchase. He imagined women in layers of clothing, pulling up petticoats and skirts to climb the rugged hill. Why anyone would build at the top of such a craggy incline, he couldn’t guess, but he had an inkling it had something to do with the view at the top.

  Well, as good as the view was going to be, Cam sincerely hoped there was some whiskey to go with it.

  The last hour of travel had been tense and awkward. Lydia had sat perfectly erect in her seat, her shoulders hardly touching the leather upholstery. She had not said a word to him after they had gotten gas at the rest stop along the highway, and he supposed she wouldn’t speak for a while yet. If and when she did speak, he was sure she’d blame him for the outburst. She would likely go a step further and say it was his unrefined manner that had made him speak so. Well, bullocks to her then.

  His mother was right.

  He needed to stop worrying about Lydia so much. She clearly was set in her ways when it came to judging Cam McCray, and no matter what he did, she’d always find something missing. Well, that was fine with him. Right now, he could see a lot missing in Lydia Baxter, and it wasn’t at all what he’d thought it was.

  “We’re to meet the Hatfields at one on the—”

  As it was the first thing Lydia had spoken in over an hour, the sound of her voice ricocheted oddly about the enclosed cabin of the car. Cam looked over at her as she bent, pulling up her tote from the floor between her feet and rummaging through it. It was several seconds before she pulled a plastic folder from the tote, shuffled through the papers inside, and pulled up one sheet that seemed to be of interest.

  “On the back lawn,” Lydia read from the paper.

 
; He stole another glance and caught lines of text on the paper along with what appeared to be times.

  “Is that an agenda for the weekend?”

  Lydia stuffed the paper back into the folder and the whole thing back into her tote before casting him a cold glare.

  “I have less than forty eight hours to secure this deal, Cam,” she said. “I’m making sure every minute counts.”

  They rounded another curve in the drive, and Cam slowed the car in case there was any oncoming traffic on the other side.

  “And that includes drafting an agenda?”

  Lydia looked straight ahead when she answered. “Of course.”

  He didn’t bother responding for it would do no good. Lydia often got in these moods when they had been together, and when the queen bee decided she was done talking, there was no coaxing anything out of her. So he didn’t bother.

  The action felt weird and chafing. He had never before given up on trying to make her talk when she got into one of her fits. He glanced sideways quickly to find her sitting rigidly, her shoulder hovering above the seat, arms crossed under her bosom.

  Yeah, she was definitely in a mood, and he was not going to expend energy on it. He blinked at the drive ahead of him as it went into another curve. He needed to stop listening to his mother so much.

  This curve melted into a slight upward climb toward landscaped hedges and the beginnings of a stone fountain just visible over the crest of the hill. In seconds the car topped the hill, and Lockridge House stood before them, a great wooden edifice of straight, clean lines, lending itself to colonial design.

  The front part of the house boasted a full porch on both levels of the dwelling, adorned with Doric columns. The porches were wide and sweeping, going from one end of the main structure to the other. Each window of the house was flanked by a set of black shutters so pristine in their paint, one would think they were hung yesterday. Spreading from each side of the main building were sprawling wings, each in similar architecture to the main house with the exception of the porch, which only ran along the main level on each side.

  The landscaping sported classic. Subdued hedges rimmed each perimeter while pots of colorful red geraniums filled the edges of the steps leading up to the porch and along the edge of it. Colorful sprays of salvia and black-eyed susans, cone flowers and daisies, filled a bed surrounding the stone fountain Cam had glimpsed at the crest of the hill.

  He brought the car around the curved drive as it wound its way by the main entrance. Before he had the car in park, a young man in dress slacks and a pressed white shirt came sprinting down the main stairs, sidling around the front of the car to open Cam’s door.

  “Hello, sir,” the young man said as soon as the door was open. “Welcome to Lockridge.”

  Cam looked up at the young man before looking over at Lydia. She was watching him, and something about her look had him watching her back. She took a breath as if to say something, but her eyes moved. The thought was gone or perhaps stopped, but she looked at him again.

  “Cam, please don’t—” Once again her eyes moved, and the sentence was stopped, whatever thought she had been meaning to voice was lost in the windmills in her mind. But then her eyes cleared, and her gaze focused on him. “Just be yourself,” she said. “Please.” This last word was followed by a small smile, one so unlike Lydia, it had Cam sitting in the car, staring at the seat she had vacated seconds after another young man had opened her door, releasing her from the confines of their prison of the last few hours.

  He finally blinked, stepping from the car himself and turning to the young man.

  “Two bags in the back,” he said. “The room is likely under Baxter.”

  The young man turned his head in the direction Lydia had taken toward the house. “Oh, you’re with the Hatfield party,” he said. “Great. I’ll make sure your bags make it to your room.”

  Cam slipped the young man a tip and nodded before turning toward the main steps and the lurching door Lydia had disappeared through. He stood for a long moment, his thoughts and feelings jumbled when they had been so certain when he’d come to Lydia’s aid. He shook his head, hoping the motion would toss his thoughts back into order, but it did no good. Letting out a sigh, he climbed the steps in search of the drink he was hoping accompanied the view.

  Lydia approached the check-in desk, a small wooden structure to one side of the main foyer. It had been appointed in bead board and finished in a dark stain that lent a warm and tranquil feeling to the reception area. She glanced around as she waited for another couple in front of her to finish checking in, taking in the leather of the sofas and chairs before the red brick fireplace along one wall, the colorful thick area rugs of swirling reds and taupes and browns. The entire room spoke of old money and comfort, the perfect location to woo a privileged young woman into the comfortable thought of marriage.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  Lydia turned to the woman standing behind the check-in desk as the other couple moved away, heads bent, whispering to one another. For a moment, Lydia’s gaze stayed on them, the happy couple, her focus arrested in the quiet domesticity of the gesture. Had she and Cam ever looked like that? She recalled the tug of the seatbelt against her chest as he had swerved the car off the highway in reaction to her question and thought it not likely.

  “Miss?”

  Lydia started at the sound of the woman’s voice, its firm yet coaxing tone, the singularity of the pronoun used.

  “Yes, Lydia Baxter and Cameron McCray. We’re here for the Hatfield party.” She stepped up to the desk and set her clutch on the gleaming wood of the check-in desk while her tote rested in the crook of her elbow.

  “Yes, of course, Miss Baxter,” the young woman said, her face round and soft, her cheeks too pink.

  “It’s Ms. Baxter,” Lydia said, not understanding where the corrective compulsion had arisen from but wanting somehow to smack the rosy out of the young woman’s cheeks.

  “It could have been Mrs. McCray if the shaft of feminism wasn’t shoved so far up your—”

  “Cameron!”

  Lydia had time neither to scold her suddenly arrived husband nor collect her bearings before Evelyn Hatfield swept down on them. The stout little woman wore an ensemble that resembled something close to the upholstery in a nursing home activity room, all big blooms and bright colors meant to cheer the onlooker but which only drew disdain and a feeling of unease. Her bristly gray hair was neatly tucked around her ears in a stunning imitation of a football helmet, so unmoving was the coif.

  But she wore a smile so bright, Lydia wanted to fucking puke as the woman went directly for the husband that was currently causing her so much grief.

  “I’m so glad you’ve arrived. Molly, they’ll be staying in our wing, right?”

  It took Lydia a moment to realize Molly was the young woman standing behind the reception desk.

  “Of course, Mrs. Hatfield. I’d be happy to put them in the east wing with the rest of your party.”

  “Splendid.” Mrs. Hatfield gave an efficient little clap of her hands. “Now then, you must run off and change. We’re having cocktails and croquet in the courtyard, and I am going to want to see your best mallet work, Mr. McCray.” Evelyn did something with her hips that made Lydia strain at the temptation to look away.

  Instead, she simply smiled. “Of course, what fun. We’ll be along shortly. I promise.”

  Cam gave her a sidelong glance that spoke something she was sure would be condescending or at least scolding before turning to Mrs. Hatfield.

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, lass,” he said, bending only slightly to retrieve one of Mrs. Hatfield’s hands she was using to demonstrate a wave motion around her rolling hips.

  Cam raised the hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. Lydia was shocked to her fucking eyeballs that the woman didn’t drop over dead.

  “Wooing my wife again, McCray? Before long, we’ll need to take this out to the parking lot or w
hatever it is men do to settle a score.”

  Lydia blinked at the approaching figure of Mr. Ronald Hatfield. Cam smiled, dropping Evelyn’s hand to reach for Ronald’s outstretched one.

  “Where I come from, we duel. How are you with a sword?”

  “Appalling,” Hatfield returned. “How about we talk it out over some highballs?”

  Cam laughed, the sound so rich and full, so lively, that Lydia wondered when it was that the room had suddenly exploded in full sound and color and why it hadn’t been that way until Cam had arrived. Then she wondered why she wasn’t a part of that vibrancy.

  “Just what I had in mind.”

  It was then that Lydia realized Cam had placed one hand at the small of her back, the gesture intimate and familiar, and in that realization, came a sort of out of body experience for Lydia. She saw what she and Cam must have looked like. His clothes casually wrinkled from a long car ride, his hair flopping about his face, his five o’clock shadow making him look dashing at the same time it made him look cozy and safe, content. She in her tailored button down and leopard print flats, her Italian leather tote slung across one arm. Her husband’s hand at the small of her back, his shoulder turned just so as to melt into the line of hers making them appear as one.

  It made Lydia want to cry.

  “We’ll catch you both on the back lawn in say a half hour, then?”

  Hatfield nodded, waving a hand in parting as he hustled his wife toward the back of the reception area where a bank of french doors opened onto what appeared to be another porch wrapping around the back side of the estate.

  “Mrs. McCray, you’ll be in room 37 in the east wing.”

  Lydia didn’t realize Molly was speaking to her until Cam snorted with derision. She elbowed him in the stomach and turned around. “Room 37? Sounds great.” She snatched the key Molly held up to her.

  “It’s directly down the hall behind you. Fourth room from the end,” Molly said, her eyes scanning a computer screen hidden by the edge of the reception desk. “Oh, it looks like you’ll be near the bride and groom.”