Disguised Blessing (16 page)

It was useless to deny it. “I overheard something at the party—”

“Something I said?”

“No.

“Who then?”

Lynda could actually feel Wendy’s anger. “I don’t know. I was outside and they were on the deck. I couldn’t see who it was.”

“Why didn’t you say something to me? Wait a minute. As I recall, you did say something. You told me to go away, that you never wanted to see me again.”

“I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“You should be. Damn it, Lynda, I’m so mad at you I could spit.”

“If you think it would help, go ahead.”

“Don’t try to make me laugh. I want to stay mad at you. At least for a while. You deserve it.”

“How long?” Wendy would stretch it out until she was spent, but the worst was over. They would talk about what had happened for days to come, examine every mistake and misunderstanding until it was laid open like a frog in biology class, and then they would go on, best friends again.

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“So, what do you think about Brian?”

“I like him. And I’m jealous as hell. Everyone is. Especially Lisa. He’s all she can talk about. Wait until I tell you what happened today when she—”

Lynda settled against the pillows, using one to prop up her telephone arm. She had a feeling it was going to be a long conversation.

She listened to Wendy’s story about Lisa’s top coming off when David tried to teach her to ski barefoot. She smiled. She might not have her life back where she wanted it, but she had this, and for now, for this moment, she was happy again.

C
ATHERINE ANSWERED THE DOOR WITH A HEART
-felt smile, thinking it was Brian. Tom responded with a huge smile of his own.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her good mood shattered.

“After that message you left on my machine I thought I’d better pick up the rest of my things before you gave them away to that fireman. He was the charity you were talking about, wasn’t he?”

“Trust me, there’s nothing you have that Rick would want.”

“Not even you?”

The problem with glass doors was that you couldn’t slam them for effect. “First of all, I’m not yours. I never was. Had I known you thought of me as a possession, I would have had sense enough to get out before I did.”

“Indulging in a little revisionist history, aren’t you? As I recall, you weren’t the one who wanted out.”

“What did I ever see in you?”

He held open his arms. “I would assume it was the same thing Adriana Petersen sees in me now.”

Catherine leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms. She knew Adriana socially, and had never had any desire to have it go beyond that. “So you’ve already found a replacement?”

He smiled seductively. “One with a bigger house and in a better location.”

“And membership in the club. I’m sure you took that into consideration when you went looking. She must not have mentioned that her husband has asked for the membership in the divorce settlement.” Catherine had no idea if that was true, but the look on his face was worth whatever she’d have to pay for the lie.

“She didn’t tell me,” he stammered. Quickly recovering, he added, “But nothing’s been finalized. There’s still time for her to negotiate and Adriana is the kind of woman who will do whatever it takes to please her man.”

“But what a nuisance. How much better it would be if you started interviewing your women a little more carefully before you committed.”

“How’s Lynda?” he asked, dismissing her sarcasm with a change of subject.

“Fine,” she said cryptically. And then decided he needed to hear more. “Actually, she’s fantastic. Better than anyone expected.”

“And Brian’s still coming around?”

She could tell he expected her to say no. “He’s due any minute. You’ll probably pass him on your way out.”

“Would you tell her I’m happy for her? And that I wish her all the best.”

“I will, but she won’t believe it. Any more than I do.”

He shifted position, moving from one foot to the other, while he avoided looking at her directly. “What did you tell her about our breakup?”

He was after something. She played along to find out what it was. “The truth.”

“And that was?”

“That you’re a self-centered, egotistical son of a bitch who didn’t deserve us.”

Strangely, he seemed more relieved than angry. “Then you didn’t tell her I left because of her?”

She studied him, looking for clues. “No.”

“I’m glad.”

“She figured it out for herself.”

Now came the panic. “You changed her mind, though.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you don’t want her going through life thinking she’s not good enough.”

“She won’t. Luckily you’re a rare breed, Tom. She knows not to take anything you say or do seriously.”

He ran his hand through his hair and stopped to rub the back of his neck. He was too savvy to wear clothes that purposely showcased his build, but clever enough to move in ways that accomplished the task for him. Rubbing his neck pulled his sleeve taut and exposed his biceps. Wearing his pants a half size too large gave him reason to fiddle with his
waist and draw attention to how narrow and flat it was. He would be mortified to know raising his arm had exposed more sweat ring than muscle.

In addition to these physical techniques, he had a dozen calculated self-effacement ploys to point out his mental attributes should anyone happen to miss them when left to their own powers of observation. How could she see this so clearly now and have missed it for all the months they were together?

“I think I should talk to her. I overreacted when she was in the hospital and I owe her an apology.” He gave her his most practiced smile, the one that had shattered her better judgment and put her in his bed on their second date. “I owe both of you an apology.”

He wanted something, was desperate enough to humble himself for it—but what could it be? “There’s no way I’m going to let you talk to Lynda. You’ve done enough damage.”

“Damage only I can repair.”

He was good. “What Lynda needs is time and distance from you and I’ll do whatever it takes to see she gets it.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“And you’re being a pain in the ass and I’m through talking to you. Now, if you want your things, meet me at the garage.” She started to go back inside.

Tom caught her arm. “What do you want? Name it—it’s yours.”

She glared at him. He released her arm, his hands curling into fists. She’d loved him and hated him, but she’d never been afraid of him. Until now.
“What makes you think I want something?”

“You wouldn’t be acting the way you are if you didn’t.”

“How am I acting?”

“Jealous, vindictive—you’re alone and you can’t stand the thought of me being with someone else. Especially not this soon.”

Her mouth opened in surprise. Of all the things he could have said to her, this was the most bizarre. He actually believed she still cared what he did and who he did it with. She’d never known anyone like him. His ego—

No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t ego she saw in his eyes, it was fear. He was afraid of her. And Lynda. But why? What could they possibly do to him that would make any difference in his life?

Then the curtain opened, the fog lifted, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and she was hit with a blinding flash of logic. He was afraid Lynda would tell her friends about him, and eventually, even though she went to another school, it would reach Adriana’s daughter.

“You’re too late,” she said. “Wendy already convened court and tried you in absentia. She handpicked the jury, twelve of Lynda’s friends. All of whom have known her since preschool.” If she’d only known seeing him again would give her this much pleasure, she would have felt better about opening the door and finding him on her doorstep. “You were found guilty, by the way.”

He pulled himself up to his full height, towering over her. “Thanks for the warning,” he said smugly.
“You have no idea how good I can be when I’m prepared.”

“If you were as good as you think you are, you would already be where you want to be.” She went through the house to the garage to open the garage door for him. Instead of hanging around to watch, she went back inside.

The doorbell rang again five minutes later. This time she didn’t answer with a smile. She’d thought about some of the things Tom had said and was prepared for a second go-around.

Jack took a step backward when he saw the expression on her face. “Have I come at a bad time? Should I have called first?”

“I thought you were someone else.” She stepped out of the doorway to let him come in.

He hesitated. “I could come back later.”

“Lynda won’t be here. She and Brian are going to visit Ray and then they’re stopping by someplace for a hamburger.”

“Really? That’s great. I’m glad she’s getting out again.”

Finally he came inside. “Actually, it’s you I wanted to see anyway. I need your advice.”

“This is turning into a red-letter day.”

Again he hesitated. “I don’t need to do this today, Catherine. If you’ve had a bad morning I don’t mind making it another time.”

“You just missed Tom. I thought he’d come back when I opened the door just now.”

“Is he still trying to patch things up?”

“What makes you think he wants to do that?” she asked suspiciously.

“He’d be an idiot not to.”

“What’s this? A compliment from the man who found me so lacking he started looking for other sexual partners six months after we were married?”

“That had nothing to do with you. It was me. I understand that now and you should, too.”

“Are you in counseling again?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Remember, I’ve been through this with you once. I’d have to be asleep not to recognize the road signs.” She led him to the family room and indicated a chair for him to sit in. Before she sat in the opposite chair, she asked, “Would you like something to drink? There’s iced tea, and I think there’s some lemonade left.”

“No, thanks.”

She sat down and tucked her legs under her. “Okay, I’m all yours.” She smiled at the irony. “For the moment.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve decided to ask Michelle to marry me.”

Catherine didn’t know what to think or how to feel. She didn’t love him. Why would she care that he was getting married again? “You’re telling me this before you tell her?”

“If I’m going to do this thing, I want it to last this time. I don’t want this child to have to go through what Lynda did. And I want to try to make up for some of the harm I’ve done to Lynda by including
her in my life now—the way she should have been included all along.”

“How do I fit into this?” she asked.

“I don’t know how to tell Lynda. How do I convince her that she’s important to me? I can say the words, but how do I make her believe them?”

“Don’t tell her, Jack. You’ve told her too many times already. She doesn’t listen anymore. You’re going to have to show her.”

“How?”

She felt a flash of righteous anger. Jack was repeating a pattern established in their marriage. He would screw something up and then look to her for the easy answer to extricate himself. He wanted her to give him a roadmap to his daughter’s heart, a menu where he could order one item from caring, one from attention, one from listening, and one from loving discipline and end up with a complete, satisfying relationship.

“Think of all the things you haven’t done with her or for her in the past and start doing them. Sacrifice to be with her but never tell her when you do. She has to reach the point that she takes you for granted before she can trust that you will be there for her. That is a child’s right, not a privilege.”

He seemed to fold into himself, as if overwhelmed by the prospect. “I don’t know if I can do all of that,” he admitted. “How can I always be there for Lynda and Michelle and the new baby, too?”

How he worked things out with Michelle and their new baby was his problem. Lynda was hers.
“Your entire life you’ve put yourself and what you need and what you want first. Nothing else is going to change until that does.”

“Well, I asked.”

“And I answered,” she said.

“I want Lynda to be in the wedding. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Aren’t you moving a little fast? You haven’t even asked Michelle to marry you yet.”

“She’ll say yes. And I want to get it over with before Michelle starts showing.”

“It’s going to be impossible to find a formal summer dress that will hide Lynda’s pressure garments. Everything that’s in the stores now is sleeveless.”

“Why does she have to hide her pressure garments?”

If asked, Catherine would have sworn that not an ember remained of the love she’d once had for Jack Miller. But there it was, ready to be rekindled. Not into the love she’d once felt, but into something more important. In that simple statement he’d created in her a willingness to do whatever it took to help him become Lynda’s father.

“
A
LL RIGHT—WHAT’S GOING ON HERE
?” Catherine said, propping her hands on her hips and glaring at her daughter.

“Nothing,” Lynda insisted. “Brian just reminded me that we promised Ray we’d come by to watch a movie with him tonight and that he’d invited Wendy to come with us. It’s all arranged. And I know you wouldn’t want me to disappoint Ray.”

She didn’t believe for a minute that Lynda had forgotten anything, but the story was too good for Catherine to win the argument. “You’re the one who invited Rick to dinner. How is it going to look if you’re not around when he gets here?” She decided to try a little of Lynda’s own strategy. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you? Not after everything he’s done for us.”

“You’re good, Mom. But I’m better. Rick would never ask me to break a date with Ray to keep one with him.”

The oven timer sounded, signaling the cake was
done. Catherine reached for an oven mitt and a toothpick. After inserting the toothpick in the center of the cake and checking it, she decided to give it another five minutes. She turned to see Lynda leaving.

“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not through with you.”

Lynda blinked several times, feigning a wide-eyed innocence. “I was just going to get the cream so you could rub my back.”

Catherine smiled despite her frustration. It was so good to see how far Lynda had come emotionally that at moments like these she had trouble staying angry for long. Still, she had to draw a line where Rick was concerned and insist Lynda didn’t cross it again. It wasn’t fair to lead him on this way, no matter who was doing the leading.

When the cake was out of the oven and cooling, Catherine went upstairs for the fifth of Lynda’s six daily massages. According to everything they’d been told and had researched for themselves, the more Lynda’s scars were manipulated with deep massage, the better the final outcome. They had eighteen months. After that, the scarring was set.

Lynda was too young to fully appreciate how important it was to keep to the schedule Catherine had set up as soon as her back was healed enough to begin the massage. She saw her future through the eyes of a teenager, unable to focus more than a month or two ahead. Reality was something she could touch or feel or talk to on the phone.

When Lynda was a woman and looked back on this summer with questions about her care,
Catherine wanted her to know they had left no road untraveled, no potential solution untried.

If accomplishing that meant postponing her search for a job and using her savings to pay bills, then that’s what she would do. Jack had agreed to cut back on his own expenses rather than ask the court to lower her alimony, at least for the next six months, while Lynda still needed so much of her mother’s time and attention.

Not once in her thirty-eight years had Catherine been independent. She’d moved from her parents’ home to a college dorm and then back home again while she planned her marriage. Jack had wanted her to be a homemaker, believing she could better help him socially if she was always available, and she’d agreed. The job she took after the divorce was more for pride than income. Her skills were limited, her degree in English literature limiting.

She’d earned “play” money to cover the impulse purchase, the Italian shoes, the florist bill for the fresh flowers she ordered weekly to try to make their enormous house seem more like a home.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Catherine shook free of the dark thoughts that lately had nipped at her heels like a high-strung miniature poodle. Lynda had enough on her plate without a serving of financial concerns from her mother.

Lynda was already out of her pressure garments and on the massage table they’d bought the week before, her head over the end, slowly, rhythmically swinging her arms out to the side and overhead, stretching the skin and muscle where her arms con
nected to her back. She looked up from the fashion magazine she’d been reading when she heard Catherine come in.

“I hope we have an early winter.”

Catherine set the timer for twenty minutes and spread the cream across Lynda’s back and arms and buttocks where the additional skin had been harvested for transplant. “Don’t tell me the designers have finally come up with something worth buying this year.”

“As if.” She flipped the page. “Actually, I was just thinking about my sweaters and how well they’ll cover my pressure suit. No one will even know I have it on—they’ll just think I’ve gotten fat.”

“I thought you were okay with the suit,” Catherine said carefully. The custom-made garment was flesh-colored and fit like a second skin. Worn to further reduce scarring, it was the passive partner to the active massage. Lynda only took it off to shower or during a massage.

“Come on, Mom. If it was you, would you be okay with it?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “If I’ve learned nothing else these past couple of months, it’s how insulting it is to tell someone you know what they’re going through or how they feel when you’ve never experienced anything like that yourself.”

“Did you know Rick was burned?”

“Yes.” Lynda had slipped into the habit of abruptly changing subjects in the middle of a conversation. As disconcerting as it was, Catherine usually just went along.

“It doesn’t bother him. But then, he’s old.”

“I know—my age. Ancient.”

“That’s not what I mean. He doesn’t have to worry about girls being turned off by how his arms look.”

“Why not?” Instead of looking at Lynda’s back, Catherine focused on the rectangular patch of sunlight bleaching the flowered wallpaper behind the dresser. There were times she couldn’t bear to see the evidence of the pain Lynda suffered. The parents in her support group had told her that eventually she would be able to separate the scars from the memory, but she couldn’t imagine it happening. How would she ever be able to look at the imprint on Lynda’s back and not remember the crimson camisole that had melted into the flesh?

“Jeez, Mom. Have you ever really looked at Rick? He’s gorgeous. Who cares about his arms?”

“We need to talk about this, Lynda.”

“My hair should be out by Christmas, don’t you think?”

“I’m serious. You have to stop trying to push me and Rick together.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know where to begin.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s a very nice man. So was Tom. At least I thought so in the beginning.”

Lynda pushed up on her elbows and twisted to look at her mother. “You can’t be comparing Rick to Tom.”

“I don’t know Rick well enough to compare him
to anyone. What I’m trying to get through to you is that a man—any man—is the last thing I need, or want, in my life right now.” She grabbed a towel and wiped the remaining lotion off Lynda’s back. “You have to promise me you’ll stop this matchmaking. It isn’t fair to either of us.”

Lynda sighed. “Brian thinks you’re perfect for each other, too.”

“It just keeps getting worse.” She moved to let Lynda sit up, then stood in front of her to get her full attention. “I know you think you’re doing me a favor, but you’re not. Rick is going to wind up hurt if you keep this up and I’m going to be furious with you if that happens.”

“Okay, I’ll behave.” She hopped down. “But I still can’t stay for dinner,” she added from her bedroom door.

Catherine considered calling Rick and giving him the option to cancel the evening. Once he found out Lynda wouldn’t be there to fill the awkward silences, she had no doubt he’d come up with an excuse to bail. She dialed his number.

He wasn’t home. Deciding it wasn’t the kind of message she wanted to leave on his machine, she went back to preparing the meal.

Convinced he’d put on too much cologne, Rick ran his hands over his cheeks and down his neck as if he could remove a layer of fragrance. Half an hour was too long to still be smelling the stuff. The cologne was a brand he didn’t know, something expensive his sister had given him for his birthday. She’d
picked it up at Nordstrom and, after letting it sit on the shelf in his bathroom for four months, he’d stupidly decided to try it that afternoon. He’d liked it a lot when he first put it on, but was having second thoughts.

Now he pictured himself ringing Catherine’s doorbell surrounded by an invisible bubble of odor that would knock her out cold when he walked by.

This was insane. Surely he could find something better to worry about—meteors striking the earth or oil being discovered on his land. He stopped and waved to the guard who opened the gate without leaving his air-conditioned cubicle.

Catherine must have been watching for him, because she opened the door before he had a chance to ring the bell.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled.

“I’m a little early. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. Come in.”

He entered the foyer and handed her the bottle of wine he’d been saving to inaugurate his new kitchen.

She looked at the label. “Randle’s Roost—I love their wines, especially their merlot. I’ve never met anyone else who’s ever heard of them. How did you?”

“I was wandering around the foothills looking for the lumber to make my kitchen cabinets and they had an old barn that wasn’t going to see another winter upright. We made the deal—the lumber in exchange for some cabinets they wanted for the showroom. In the process of hauling and
building we became friends. They gave me a couple of cases of wine out of their private collection and add to it every Christmas.”

Catherine seemed flustered. “I’m afraid the wine is more special than the meal. Maybe you should save it for another time.”

“Any homecooked meal that I didn’t have to help prepare is a special occasion. The way I figure it, if I come bearing gifts and behave myself while I’m here, you just might ask me back.” She stared at him as if he’d announced he was a visitor from another planet. “It was a joke, Catherine.”

“I’m sorry.” She made a quick, helpless gesture with her hand. “I don’t know any way around it so I might as well just tell you straight out—Lynda isn’t here. She never had any intention of being here. This whole evening was a setup to get us together.”

“I thought as much.”

“You did?”

“I could see her mind heading in that direction when I took her to see Sandra. And then when she called and told me you’d asked her to invite me to dinner, I just hoped she’d at least warned you I was coming before I showed up on your doorstep.”

“You shouldn’t have let her get away with it.”

Obviously she knew as well as he did that he had no business being there. She couldn’t know how he felt about her, but she was aware they had a line they shouldn’t cross. Which made it safe for them to be together, at least for that night.

He smiled to put her at ease. “And give up a chance for a homecooked meal? Not a chance.”

She returned his smile. “If I’d known you were so passionate about the homecooking part, I would have made meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

“Instead of?”

“Marinated flank steak, green salad, Harvard beets, and baked potatoes.”

He put his hand to his chest. “Be still my heart.”

She laughed. “Keep that up and you’ll be invited to eat with us every night.”

“You cook like this all the time?”

“Well, maybe not quite this elaborate. I’ve been pushing my culinary skills since Lynda came home from the hospital. I don’t want her going back to her rabbit food until she’s well enough to get along without the calories.”

“And it’s working?”

She held up crossed fingers. “So far. I even made her favorite dessert—thinking she was going to be here. If I’d known it was just you and me, I would have made something different.”

“And her favorite dessert would be?”

“Yellow cake with chocolate frosting.” She led the way to the kitchen, where she took a double-pronged bottle opener out of a drawer to uncork the wine.

“Sounds good to me. But just so I know what I’m missing, what would you have made?”

She put the wine on the table to give it time to breathe before dinner and removed the bottle of burgundy she’d put there earlier. “Oh, probably something lighter, like Grand Marnier sauce over fresh raspberries.”

“Hmmm, that’s a tough one, but I think I’d have to go with the cake.”

“Only because you’ve never tasted my Grand Marnier sauce. I guarantee you’ll change your mind when you do.” Catherine was stunned at how easily she implied a future invitation when only hours earlier she’d insisted to Lynda that it would never happen again.

She looked at the elegantly set table, the linen and crystal and sterling, and decided it was all wrong. Not for Rick, for her. “Would you mind if we ate on the deck?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“My father always said you invited friends to an elbows-on-the-table meal and saved the fancy stuff for people you wanted to impress.”

“Wise man.”

“More a simple man, I think. He grew up poor and never accepted or understood the rules that come with having a lot of money. He was so oblivious to the social obligations that come with running a company like his that it became a full-time job for my mother.”

“What kind of company was it?”

“He looked for businesses that were failing because of poor management and turned them around. Along with everything my mother did for my father, she made sure Gene and I went to the right schools, had the right friends, and were invited to the right parties. When my dad died, she dumped every club and organization she didn’t enjoy and then did the same thing with friends. She said she
was through spending time with people she didn’t like when she didn’t have enough time for the people she loved.”

Catherine looked at Rick and frowned. “I don’t know why I told you that. I hardly ever talk about my family.”

“Why?”

“It’s boring—like telling someone about your dreams.”

“Not to me. I’m always on the lookout for people with crazy relatives so I’ll know I’m not alone.”

“You have crazy relatives?”

“On both sides: It can get kind of scary at family reunions.”

She took two plates from the cupboard and put them on a wooden tray, then added knives, forks, and spoons, place mats and napkins. “I don’t believe you.”