Monday's Child (15 page)

Thirty-Seven

After a few missed guesses, Beverly located the coffee in her sister’s kitchen cupboard and set about making a pot. As luck would have it, Georgia’s coffeemaker was the same model as the one she had at home.

Great minds, she thought.

More likely Georgia had shopped carefully for the perfect machine to meet her family’s needs, while personally, she’d bought the first one she found on sale.

Actually, that pretty much summed up their lives.

Georgia was deliberate and thorough; she was impulsive and scattered.

Georgia had married and set out to have a family; she’d gotten pregnant and had fought tooth and nail to keep from being pushed into marriage.

Georgia, the librarian, lived a quiet life in the quaint little town of Winslow. Beverly, the actress, with her blinkers on, tried to merge into the fast lane in big bad Los Angeles.

Despite their differences in age and style, they’d always been friends. Although for a while there, back when she was so easily, accidentally pregnant and Georgia had been told by the specialists that she’d never have a child, things had gotten a bit tense.

Georgia had never said anything, but sometimes Beverly could see it in her eyes:

Here I am, desperate to have a baby, and there you are, eighteen, unmarried, and pregnant.

There’d been a little jealousy, and even a momentary flash of anger, between them, but the most beautiful baby gift she’d received was a hand-crocheted blanket from her sister.

Katy still had the blanket. All on her own, she’d folded it in half, sewn the sides together, stuffed it with foam she’d bought from a notions store, and made it into a pillow for her bed.

It was odd that Katy hadn’t brought it with her. Of course, they’d been in a hurry to leave.

Since Katy had decided to stay on here for the week, Beverly thought she’d need the pillow to keep her company. Unless she got a better offer?

There was always Roger . . .

“Good morning.”

She turned from the counter. Dave stood in the doorway, running a hand through sleep-tousled hair.

“You’re up early,” he said. “Are you having coffee or just warming yourself on the pot?”

“Oh, is it finished?” She looked at the pot which was indeed full.

Dave laughed. He got two mugs from a shelf and handed her one. “Woolgathering?”

She didn’t answer, but moved to one side as he poured his coffee. His nearness disturbed her, and not in a pleasant way.

“A little touchy, aren’t we?” he asked.

“What?”

“I don’t bite.”

Beverly shook her head, as though she missed his meaning, and filled her mug. “Is Georgia awake?”

“Sunday’s the only day of the week she can sleep late. She usually takes full advantage of it.” He went to sit at the table.

Beverly could feel him watching her as she crossed the room and took a carton of milk from the refrigerator. She spilled a little adding it to her coffee and cursed under her breath.

“So,” she said, wiping the milk up with a paper towel,
“Georgia tells me you’re working long hours at the restaurant.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But it’s going well?”

“You might say that.” He stretched his legs out in front of him. “Why don’t you sit down, Beverly?”

She would have to walk around him if she wanted to sit at the table. “This is fine,” she said, and leaned against the counter.

“Something bothering you?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

The smile was back, cool and insinuating. “I don’t know. You’re acting funny, like you’re nervous about being alone with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She took a sip of coffee, aware that she was doing it for the sole purpose of hiding her expression from him.

“Then what’s the problem? Ever since I came in, you’ve been skittish—”

“Why are we having this conversation?” She frowned into her coffee which was still too hot to really drink. “I thought we were talking about the restaurant.”

He arched an eyebrow. “All right. If you insist. What about the restaurant? You want to know about the most recent quarterly report? Maybe what the estimated payroll is for this year? Or would you like to discuss the specifications of the new computerized cash register I’m thinking of buying.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “You want to talk business, I’ll talk business.”

“What I
don’t
want to talk about, Dave, is anything personal.”

“Why not? You’re my sister-in-law. We’re related. Why shouldn’t we talk about our personal lives?”

“Because I’m not going to.”

Dave moved his legs, as though getting ready to stand, and she shied toward the door.

“Don’t run,” he said, and laughed. “Why are you always running?”

His laughter infuriated her and that stopped her cold. “You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, Beverly. It seems to me that you have more experience with bastards than I do.”

“You son of a—” She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to throw hot coffee in his face. She couldn’t do it, no matter how good it might make her feel, because then she’d have to explain to Georgia, and that was something she could never do.

“Why don’t you leave me alone?” she asked, her throat tightening with frustration.

“You don’t want me to.”

His voice came from nearby and she opened her eyes. He was at arm’s length, but he’d positioned himself between her and the door.

“Oh boy, you’re wrong. I’ve never wanted anything to do with you.”

“Never? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

She felt the beginnings of a blush.

“No, I didn’t think you had.”

“I’m sorry Georgia ever married you.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Beverly wanted very much to say something that would take that smug expression off his face, but she had to respect her sister’s confidences. “What the hell do you want?”

“For you to admit it,” he said. “That’s all I want. You admit that you were as much to blame for what happened as I was, and I’ll never mention it again.”

Beverly stared at him, trying to see past the cocky grin. Was this some kind of ruse? A little game he was playing?

“Come on, Bev,” he said, his tone low and intimate. “There’s no one here but us . . . and both of us know what really happened.”

“Nothing goddamn happened!”

“But you wanted it to—”

Beverly slammed the coffee mug on the counter, and heard it break, but was out of the room before Dave could react.

She locked herself in the guest room, then stood there, uncertain what to do. After a moment, she crawled back into bed, clothes and all.

“Damn his eyes,” she said.

She’d been fourteen when Georgia got married, but everyone said she looked older. Dressed in the pale blue satin bridesmaid’s dress, she felt older.

The dress had been specially made for her, and it hugged her slender body like no other dress she’d ever worn. The neckline was daring, and showed the rise of her breasts along with a hint of white lace.

“You look beautiful,” Georgia had said.

“Wow, so do you.” She’d never seen her sister look so pretty and special as in her wedding gown. It was true what they said about brides, she thought, because Georgia’s face did seem to glow.

“Would you do me a favor, honey?”

“Sure.”

“Would you go downstairs and sneak me a glass of wine? I’m so damned nervous I can hardly stand it.”

Beverly smiled at her sister’s reflection in the mirror, watching as she fussed with her veil. “If that’s what you want . . . can I have a glass too?”

“I guess it wouldn’t do any harm,” Georgia said. “Just hurry.”

Downstairs, she’d gone into the kitchen and found one of their mother’s bottles—she and Georgia knew all of the hiding places—and poured each of them a glass. Because she was thirsty, she’d downed half of her glass and then refilled it before taking both up to Georgia’s room.

On the way up, she’d had to sip a taste out of each glass to keep the wine from spilling. And when Georgia left to go down to the parlor to await the music, she finished what remained in her sister’s glass.

By the time she preceded her sister down the aisle, Beverly was more than a little intoxicated.

The party, held there at the house, went on and on. There was no end to the opportunities to drink. She toasted the bride and groom, sipped from unattended glasses, and by eight that night, she found she could barely stand.

Somehow, she found herself in the family room. The lights were off and she didn’t bother to turn them on before crossing to the divan and sitting down.

“You too?” a voice said.

“Who is it?”

“Only the groom.” He was sitting in her father’s chair a few feet away from her, and he switched on one of the reading lamps. “Hi.”

“God,” she said, and giggled. “Weren’t you on a wedding cake the last time I saw you?”

“No, that was a shorter guy.”

“That’s right. Much shorter. Much, much, much shorter.”

“Are you okay, Beverly? You sound a little drunk.”

“Not me. We don’t get drunk in this family, don’t you know that?”

Dave shook his head. “I guess I’ll learn.”

“Boy, will you.” She leaned her head back against the cushion but it made her head spin. “Oh oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Shouldn’t have done that.” She got unsteadily to her feet. “I think the trick is to keep moving. ’Cause if you don’t, the room will.”

“Wait a minute—”

Dave got to her at about the time she fell off her high heels.

“Damn,” she swore. His arms were around her, holding her. “You’d think I’d never worn heels before.”

“Have you?”

“Ha! No. Maybe I’d better take them off. Hold onto me, so I don’t fall.”

“I’ve got you.” His arms tightened around her.

She leaned to one side, and lifted one foot while reaching down with her hand. The shoe dropped to the floor. She repeated the process on the other side.

“There.”

“There,” he repeated.

Beverly leaned against him, her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat and feel the warmth of him. It was an incredibly comforting feeling, and she didn’t want it to stop.

He seemed content to stand there holding her.

Gradually she became aware of other nice feelings; the pressure of his hands on her lower back, his breath against her hair, the very sturdiness of him.

“Beverly,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“I’d better go. They’ll be looking for me.”

“No,” she protested and tightened her arms around his waist. How had her arms gotten to be around his waist?

“Come on.”

“But . . . I haven’t even got to kiss the groom yet. You can’t go without a kiss.”

His hands flexed against her back. “A kiss.”

“Everyone gets to kiss the bride.” She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him. “I think it’s only fair that somebody gets to kiss the groom.”

“Do you now?”

She’d never realized before how gray his eyes were. Or how attractive he looked from this close. “I think it should be me,” she said.

“Well,” he said.

Before he could say no, she took her arms from around his waist, wrapped them around his neck, and raised up on her toes until their faces were even closer.

“I think you should—”

Beverly didn’t let him finish what he was saying. She eliminated the distance between them, her mouth hungrily searching his.

Nothing else existed.

Now, remembering, all these years later, she could still feel the heat of him, imagine his arms around her, smell his aftershave, taste his mouth.

Beverly didn’t really know who had stopped—she hoped it had been her—but later on, when she’d realized what they’d done and what they might have done, she’d started to hate David Baker.

The guilt she felt for her part in their embrace was alleviated somewhat by that hatred.

She wasn’t blameless, by any means, but he had been the adult, and she, hardly more than a child. An intoxicated fourteen-year-old child, not even fully aware of what her body was able to feel.

It was easy to blame the wine, easy to blame him. Not so easy to deny those feelings. Or to forget who’d awakened them in her.

Beverly loved her sister, and she was going to miss having Katy with her, but she was very much looking forward to getting out of this town.

Thirty-Eight

“All the great weather we’ve been having and wouldn’t you know it, today of all days, it’s going to rain.” Georgia turned from the window to look at Bev. “So much for our picnic.”

“There’ll be other days,” her sister said.

“I know.”

“If you come to LA, we can have a picnic in Griffith Park, or maybe on the beach.”

“The beach?” Her eyes were drawn again to the dark clouds which seemed to almost boil in the sky. “That sounds like fun.”

“Has Jill ever been to see the ocean?”

Georgia shook her head. “I wanted to take her, but something always came up.”

“Then it’s something to look forward to,” Bev said. “I remember taking Katy for the first time. She’d only just started to walk, but when I took her shoes off, I guess she didn’t like the feel of the sand. She absolutely refused to take a step. She stayed on the blanket all afternoon, with this huge frown on her face. Poor baby.”

“Katy’s a great kid.” She was feeling a little melancholy—cloudy days did that to her sometimes—and she had to force a smile. “I’m glad she’s staying.”

“Georgia, I know that you have some kind of plan; you usually do. But don’t you think you should reconsider, and all of us leave today?”

It struck Georgia that Beverly appeared tense this morning, in marked contrast to the ease of last night. “Is anything wrong?”

Bev sighed. “I wish you’d come with me, now.”

“I can’t. I have things I need to do.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for starters I need to get some money from the bank.”

“What? They’ve never heard of automated tellers up here?”

“And I wanted to talk to Mr. Cosgrove about Dad’s will.”

“Oh that.”

“Yes that.” She regarded her sister curiously. “I don’t understand why you aren’t more concerned.”

“Because I’m not. It isn’t that much money—”

“I think it comes to almost fifty thousand dollars,” Georgia said.

“So what? It’s here today and gone tomorrow. Look, I never cared about the money, and as far as I’m concerned it doesn’t exist. Dad did what he did to get to me; if I don’t give a damn, he lost.”

“But I think he may have had a change of heart when he was in the hospital that last time. I think he may have revised his will—”

“Again,” Bev inserted.

“Yes, again. I’ve held off letting Mr. Cosgrove settle the estate because I was sure we’d find a new codicil if we kept on looking.”

Bev frowned. “I don’t want his money, do you understand?”

“But why not? You could put it in a trust for Katy, for when she starts college.”

“Don’t be
logical,
for crying out loud.”

That startled her, and she laughed. And laughed. And couldn’t stop.

Bev looked annoyed. “Georgia . . .”

“I’m sorry,” she said, gasping for air between fits of laughter. “It’s just so absurd.”

“What is?”

She held up a hand while she regained her composure. “There’s no logic to it and it isn’t at all like I’d planned. Or anyone planned.”

“No?”

“Dave wants the money and can’t get it; you don’t want anything to do with it and I’m trying to force it on you; and Dad probably thought cutting you out of the will would drive a wedge between us, but instead I’m going to use the damn money to buy us a house.”

“It won’t buy much of a house in LA,” Bev said, but Georgia noticed a hint of a smile.

“Who cares? We’ll all live together, happily ever after.”

While Bev was packing her things for the trip back to LA, Georgia took the phone into her bedroom and closed the door.

Everything was clear, now. She knew what she had to do.

She dug around in a drawer until she located her address book, then found Mr. Cosgrove’s home phone number, which he’d given her all those months back when her father died.

She punched out the number quickly, before she had a chance to change her mind. There was a possibility he hadn’t returned yet from his business trip—the office girl had told her he’d be back tomorrow—but she crossed her fingers for luck.

And was rewarded.

“Hello?” The attorney’s voice was distinctly querulous.

“Mr. Cosgrove, this is Georgia Baker—”

“Don’t tell me,” he interrupted, “you’ve remembered an old steamer trunk your father left in storage in some out-of-the-way place like Montana?”

“No, it’s—”

“You think he wrote a new will out on the back of an envelope on his way to Gettysburg?”

The lawyer seemed to delight in needling his clients. If he weren’t the only lawyer in town, Georgia thought, he wouldn’t have any.

“Mr. Cosgrove, I need to see you as soon as possible.”

“Well, call my office.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up.” Her hand tightened on the receiver. “Would it be all right if I came by this afternoon to talk to you?”

“This afternoon? At my home?”

“I know it’s an unusual request, but it really is urgent.”

“Urgent, that’s what everyone says.”

Georgia sensed that he was wavering; he hadn’t slammed the phone down yet. “I won’t take much of your time.”

“I suppose, if you must. But I warn you, I’m not in the mood for another wild goose chase.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cosgrove.”

“Huh!” he said, and hung up the phone.

Outside, the rain started coming down.