Home for Love (18 page)

"Oh, but you can't sit around waiting for the right person," Lorna said cheerfully. "You have to go out looking. That's what I keep telling Katie. But you two haven't done too badly for yourselves. Not badly at all."

Color stained Kate's cheeks. Lorna just went on rocking madly and knitting, a calico kitten perched on her shoulder. Steven just sat there looking perfectly comfortable in spite of the absurd angle of his knees. How could he seem so at home? Kate herself had never felt she truly belonged in this house. Always she'd been restless, eager to get away and find the beauty she longed for. This was a part of her life that she'd left far behind—and she didn't want Steven to have anything to do with it.

Kate struggled up from the sofa, drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders.

"We have to go now," she said. "Thank you for the dinner, Mother. It was simply… lovely."

"We have plenty of time," Steven countered, settling back more comfortably. Kate stared at him.

"We have to go right now," she said. "At least I do. If you'd prefer to stay, I'll just take a cab."

Steven's mouth twitched, but he fought his way up from the depths of the sofa.

"I guess the night is slipping away faster than I thought," he said in a serious tone.

Lorna went right on rocking, her knitting needles flying. But she had watched this exchange with hazel eyes that were altogether too quick and bright.

"We'll let ourselves out, Mother."

"Oh, no, I can't have that." With a squeaking of shoes and a mewing of kittens, Lorna led the way to the door. "I'm so sorry you have to leave, but you will come again, won't you, Steven?"

"Of course. I had a delightful evening." He shook her hand gravely.

Outside Kate headed for the car, but Steven placed a hand on her arm. "Let's take a walk after that dinner. What do you say?"

"Fine." She turned and went the other way. "Don't tell me you're complaining about my mother's cooking," she threw over her shoulder.

"Not in the least." He kept pace with her easily. "I always enjoy a walk after a good meal."

"Well, that's fine. Just wonderful." She lengthened her stride, but Steven barely had to accelerate.

A little boy bounced a ball on one of the stoops; three girls played hopscotch in the light thrown from a window onto the sidewalk. Rock music blared from a car parked down the street. All the houses were the same— squat, ugly, shabby, even in the dark.

"You know," Steven remarked, "any other woman might be happy for a man to like her mother;"

"I'm glad you like her. The two of you should set up shop together."

"What's wrong, Katie?"

"Nothing! And don't call me that."

He shrugged mildly. They went on walking. The silence between them was covered up by the rock music and by the shouts of children. At the corner Kate turned back.

"I just want to go home," she said.

"She's not so bad, you know. She's a lot like you, as a matter of fact."

Kate pulled herself up short. "Mother and I aren't a bit alike!"

"On the contrary. Maybe if you admitted that, you could make peace with her."

"I suppose after one dinner you know all about it," she retorted. "You think you can just waltz into my life and sum it all up!"

"I'm fair at a waltz," he said, "and I've rebelled against my own parents, just like everybody else."

"Oh, wonderful." Kate went on walking. "Chalk it up to a little rebellion left over from my teens. Didn't you hear her? She said she doesn't have time to do anything with her life. She's always said that, always. And now I know that she'll keep on saying it." At last Kate understood something. She looked up at Steven. "Don't you see?" she asked. "My father tried to control my mother. He didn't want her to be an artist, to do anything that excluded him. But he's not stopping her anymore! Now it's just her, always making more excuses. No matter how domineering my father was, she's the one responsible for wasting her own talents. No one but her."

This fact was so basic, so utterly simple, but she had never realized it before. All this time she had blamed her father for holding Lorna back. She had imagined him with a power far greater than he'd actually possessed; the truth was that Lorna had created her own life, molded it to her own satisfaction.

Steven was gazing down at Kate in the pool of light cast by a street lamp.

"I think you're being too hard on both your parents," he said. "If you could just accept them—both of them—you'd be able to let go of your anger."

Kate stood very still. "Steven, I'm ahead of you on this," she said. "Tonight I've really seen my parents— the way they actually were together, not the way I always remembered them. I don't know if that's acceptance, but it does mean letting go, at least a little." She felt she'd taken a step into the future—her own future, not a repetition of the life her parents had lived. But that was more frightening than anything she'd ever done before. Without the past to cloud her vision, she could see Steven so clearly now. She could see herself, and the way she felt about him…

She wasn't ready, after all! Not for this, not for the stark, elemental knowledge that she loved Steven. She made a desperate struggle against it.

"Please take me home," she said. She went to the Mercedes, wobbling in her blasted heels. Steven caught hold of her arm.

"What is it, Kate? The look on your face just now. What's wrong?" He was being gentle. Oh, damn, he was such a wonderful, endearing mixture of tenderness and stubbornness, idealism and hard practicality.

"Don't ask me any more questions, Steven," she begged. "Just take me home!"

He obliged her this time, and they maintained a strained silence during the drive. When he pulled up in front of her place, she wouldn't let him come inside. Down in the foyer she unstrapped her shoes and ran barefoot all the way up the stairs. At the top she shut her door and locked it and pressed shaking hands against her cheeks. She looked at the profusion of violets. And she knew she couldn't lock Steven out of her heart or mind.

She loved him. She was deeply and irrevocably in love with Steven Reid.

Kate trudged up the walk to a castle on McClary Hill. Granted, it wasn't a very large castle, but it had turrets and towers everywhere in mossy gray stone. A small pond even served as a moat, the pathway turning into a bridge to cross it. Kate stopped for a moment to look down into the dark green water, her throat parched with thirst. She had been traipsing up and down McClary Hill all day, trying to find anyone who might know the history of Steven's house. The whole time her eyes had welled with tears—being in love was turning out to be a very briny experience for her. She hadn't slept at all last night, not after that revelation of her love. She couldn't confide it to anyone, least of all to Steven. He was attracted to her; she was sure about that much. But that didn't mean he would ever love her.

She didn't want to love him! She wanted her old, carefree self back. She'd been so happy and independent before she met him. What was going to happen to her now? She couldn't seem to stop crying.

Two ducks paddled by in the pond below and quacked a belligerent greeting at her.

"Hello, yourselves," she croaked back. She crossed the bridge into a wild garden where roses, daffodils and pansies all tangled together. Kate lifted the knocker on the massive wooden door.

There was no response after several knocks. She turned dispiritedly to go, but then the door creaked open. She turned back to find a large, loose-limbed man regarding her from under a shaggy thatch of white hair. He had a big, friendly nose and faded blue eyes enmeshed in wrinkles. His enormous, baggy overalls matched the shade of his eyes, and bristled with all sorts of intriguing pockets.

"Good afternoon," he boomed. "What can I do for you?"

"Good afternoon. I was hoping to speak to the owner of the house."

"That's me! That's me, all right. Lord of the manor." His laughter rang out. It was infectious, and Kate smiled back weakly. "Come in, come in, young woman, and tell me what I can do for you. But first you look like you need some refreshment. Will apple juice do?"

"Yes… thank you." Kate stepped across the threshold. The man shuffled away, leaving Kate to the scrutiny of an elderly beagle. Apparently she passed muster, for he gave a solemn wag of his tail.

"That's Fred," the man said when he came back.

Kate gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears and earned another wag. She stood up and gratefully took a chilled glass of juice. Sipping it, she began to feel a little less salty.

She glanced about the spacious hall with its high ceiling. The furnishings were sparse, but beautiful: oak chairs with simple, elegant lines; a sideboard with a delicately etched leaf design.

"These are wonderful," Kate murmured, stopping to examine each piece.

"Like 'em, eh? You won't mind talking to me in the workroom, then." He and Fred led her through a warren of rooms out to a large, sunny porch. Wood was stacked neatly in the corners; sawhorses and racks of tools and workbenches were everywhere. Two chairs stood in the middle of the airy room, waiting to be finished. Kate delighted in the pure gleam of sunshine on wood, the clean simplicity of both the workshop and the furniture. Even the sawdust was swept into neat piles.

"My father was a carpenter, too," the man said. "Have a seat there." He pointed out a stool that had the same clean lines as the chairs. "Built this crazy castle when he made it big in the construction business."

Kate settled herself on the stool and flexed her aching feet. She watched as the man took a piece of sandpaper from one of his pockets and began working a lovely piece of rosewood. Fred slumped down beside him.

"You've lived here all your life, then?" Kate asked. "You know the neighborhood?"

"That I do, miss, that I do. There've been Newberrys here for over a hundred years now."

Kate drew in her breath a little. "Mr. Newberry, have you ever heard of Eliza Rose Hobbes?"

"There used to be a Mrs. Hobbes up the hill a ways."

"Yes, yes, that's her! Can you tell me anything about her?" She clasped her hands tensely around the glass of juice. No one else in the neighborhood had been able to help her. Mr. Newberry continued sanding calmly and methodically.

"Well, now… she was a pretty woman. Always had a flock of children about her. Her own brood, along with the neighborhood kids like me. She made the best hard candy I've ever tasted." He chuckled in his deep bass, poking around in his pockets until he produced a packet of red licorice. "Like some?"

"Thank you. Then Eliza was married?"

"Yes. Mr. Hobbes used to order furniture from my father. A quiet man, he was."

"Do you know if his name was Michael? Was he an actor?"

"We just knew him as Mr. Hobbes. He was on the small side, with a big handlebar mustache. Never will forget that mustache. He used to play Santa Claus for us at the neighborhood parties."

"Can you tell me anything more about him and Eliza? Anything at all?"

"Let's see…" The sandpaper rasped in a soothing, constant rhythm. "She had dark hair and big blue eyes. Lively, she was. She had a beautiful voice and sang with the church choir. And that hard candy…oh, that candy makes my mouth water right now. Peppermint, that was the best."