E
lisabeth, with a big white apron wrapped around her church dress, was in the kitchen pulling the rolls from the oven and making the gravy. Rachel was taking Stan for a before-lunch walk in his wheelchair outside while the girls frisked around their aunt and grandpa in the backyard. Since Tilda and J.D. customarily had Sunday afternoon and evening off, it was left to Becky to answer the doorbell.
She put ice into the last crystal tumbler, then went to get it. She knew who it was before she even opened the door. Elisabeth usually had anywhere from four to six guests every Sunday afternoon. Today they were having just one.
Johnny Harris.
With a welcoming smile pinned to her face, Becky pulled the door wide. Then she stood gaping, the forgotten smile fading.
“My goodness!” she gasped, her eyes running over him again in disbelief. He wore a suit, an expensive-looking navy blue business suit that fit him like a glove, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a maroon silk tie. He’d had his hair cut. It waved crisply back from his face in a sexy businessman’s cut that covered the tips of his ears and just brushed his shirt collar in the back.
“Am I early?” he asked. Her eyes traveled to meet his. It was Johnny Harris, all right. The blue eyes and the lean, dark, sinfully good-looking face hadn’t changed much since high school days. She had thought him the handsomest man in Tylerville since she’d seen him at Glenda’s funeral yesterday, but with his jeans and long hair, he hadn’t been quite the type she fancied for herself. Now he was, and Becky was conscious of a stab of envy that her sister had nabbed a man who looked like that. Hunks were more her style than Rachel’s, as a general rule. Though, of course, this one came with some major drawbacks.
“Becky?” He was looking down at her a little quizzically as she continued to stare at him without speaking.
“You look wonderful,” she said with a burst of candor. Her instinctive pang of sister-envy was replaced by a tingle of anticipation at how pleased Rachel was going to be at his transformation. She smiled up at him. “Rachel is going to be shocked.”
“Thank you—I think.” In response to her gesture, he stepped into the huge entrance hall with its bronze busts and antique landscapes and the ancient oriental runner over the polished hardwood floor, looking just slightly ill at ease as he glanced around. “Where is Rachel?”
“She’s outside with Daddy and the girls. Come into the living room. I’ll get you a drink while you wait for her to come in.” Becky shut the door, then led the way through the mahogany pocket doors that separated the living room from the front hall. “Won’t you sit down? What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have iced tea, please,” Johnny said. Ignoring her invitation to sit, he walked to the huge bow window at the far end of the room. Through it he could clearly see Rachel pushing her father in his wheelchair along a stone walk that connected the patio to a paved area in front of what had once been a barn but was now a garage.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the glass from Becky
as she rejoined him. “Are those your children?” He indicated the three girls who were playing in the grass.
“Yes. The one with black hair is Lisa, the younger fair-haired one is Loren, and the baby is Katie. I hope you don’t mind dining with children. They always join us for Sunday lunch.”
“I like children.”
“Do you?” It seemed to Becky that she had endowed the question with a shade too much meaning—she immediately pictured him dandling Rachel’s children on his knee and did not know quite what to make of the prospect—so she spoke again at random to cover up any awkwardness. “Rachel tells me you also like dogs.”
“Does she?” A slow smile crossed his face, and he took a sip of tea. “Rachel tells me that you and her mother don’t.”
“Why no, we don’t. At least, we’ve never had one. My girls have a cat.”
“That’s nice.”
The conversation faltered. Becky, who had never in her life felt uncomfortable talking to a man, floundered about searching for something to say and finally gave up. He did not look at her, but stood sipping his tea and watching Rachel through the window with an unreadable expression on his face. Becky thought of the wild, rebellious youth he’d been in school, of his time in prison, of the murders Rachel was so sure he had not committed, and shivered inwardly. He was a gorgeous man, no doubt about it, but there was an aura of danger about him that made it almost impossible for her to picture him with Rachel. Sweet, dreamy Rachel, who had always been so perfect, never behaving badly, never taking a wrong step. Rachel, who always knew the right thing to do and did it with inborn grace. To imagine her with a rebel like Johnny Harris, even in his present clean-cut incarnation, was mind-boggling.
“Rachel is—very fond of you,” Becky said abruptly,
wanting to discover just how he would answer. Rachel had never been as popular with men as Becky, and it was possible that her head had been turned by the raw sexuality that this particular man possessed in spades. If he spoke of Rachel with affectionate contempt, or dismissed her lightly …
“Did she tell you that?” His eyes slid around to Becky’s face. She felt uncomfortable beneath their unblinking regard. What was it about him that made her so uncharacteristically nervous? His reputation? His looks? The suit, which made her think of him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
He smiled, and to her amazement Becky realized that, in addition to his devastating looks, he also possessed a large degree of charm. No wonder Rachel had fallen for him, and fallen hard. If it were not for Rachel, Becky thought, she might be tempted to indulge in a little flirtation with him herself. Nothing serious, of course, and certainly, under no conditions would she ever consider marrying a man like Johnny Harris. But for a short-term relationship, a fling, he would be wonderfully exciting. Unless it turned out that he was a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde type after all, as Elisabeth feared.
“Your sister is an amazing person.”
Becky shook off the sudden attack of nervous shivers that threatened her. “I know. I’m glad you realize it.”
Johnny looked out the window again almost meditatively, took a sip of tea, and glanced again at Becky.
“Rachel tells me you’re getting a divorce. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Becky gathered up her resolve. If she was going to learn anything about the real Johnny Harris, then she would have to be bold. Politely fencing with him would get her nowhere. “I hope you won’t think me terribly rude for butting in, but my sister is very dear to me. You—she”—despite her best efforts Becky was floundering again—“you’re a very unlikely couple.”
“I suppose we are, on the face of it. But your sister has a rare ability to see beneath the surface.”
“There is a gap of several years between you.”
“I don’t let it worry me. She’s of age.”
The flickering smile that accompanied this silenced Becky for the moment. Like him, she sipped tea and looked through the window at Rachel, who was now pushing their father back toward the house. With the wind blowing her chin-length brown hair away from her face and whipping the full skirt of her lemon yellow shirtwaist dress around her slim legs, Rachel looked much younger than her thirty-four years. Love softened her face as she leaned forward to talk to their father, though Becky knew he probably didn’t understand a word of what Rachel said or even realize that he was being spoken to. As she watched, Becky’s heart swelled with affection for her sister, and she felt a fierce protectiveness as well.
“I just want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy,” Becky said suddenly, intensely.
“We want the same thing, then.”
“Rob—the man she was seeing—is a very nice man. He’s a pharmacist, and he owns a lovely house, and he’s forty years old. He’d make her a good husband.” This abrupt speech was imbued with far more meaning than the words themselves indicated.
“I disagree with you there. I think she would have been quietly miserable within a year if she’d been foolish enough to marry him.”
That startled Becky into looking up at him. “Why would you think that?”
“Because Rachel’s a dreamer. Only a very few people realize it because of that practical exterior of hers. She experiences life differently from most people. Her loves are deeper, her loyalties are deeper, and her capacity for hurt is deeper. She deserves more than to be some Neanderthal’s little housewife, and she wouldn’t be happy in that role.”
Becky’s jaw sagged slightly as she listened to this eloquent, thoughtful, and totally on-target assessment of Rachel. She wouldn’t have thought Johnny Harris possessed so much insight. In fact, before today she would have doubted that he possessed any insight at all.
Maybe Rachel’s regard for him was based on more than Becky had supposed.
“Since you know all that, I suppose you know, too, that you could hurt her very badly.”
“I would sooner cut off my hand than hurt Rachel.” That flat, quiet statement rang with such truth that Becky felt the bulk of her fears slowly melt away. There were still many obstacles in the way of Rachel’s finding happiness with Johnny Harris, but the man’s feelings for her weren’t one of them.
“Becky, where are you? I need you to—” Elisabeth’s voice arrived seconds before she herself did, and it broke off when she saw that her daughter was not alone.
“Oh,” she said, and was silent for an instant as her eyes swept their guest from head to toe. From the faint shock that passed over her mother’s features, Becky was confident that his appearance was as much a surprise to Elisabeth as it had been to her. But Elisabeth, schooled in the social graces by years of acting as her husband’s hostess for all manner of business and political functions, recovered almost at once. Becky did not think that anyone who did not know her intimately would even have recognized the slight hesitation before she continued, “I didn’t realize you had arrived. How do you do? It’s very kind of you to join us for lunch.”
“It’s kind of you to ask me.”
Becky’s nervousness over being the referee at this initial meeting began to dissipate. Her mother was being very formal but gracious enough. Clearly she had absorbed a sufficient understanding of Rachel’s feelings for this man to avoid saying anything overtly impolite, though there
was a certain stiffness to her bearing that Becky knew stemmed from disapproval. Johnny Harris could not know that, however, and what he did not know could not offend him.
Elisabeth, however, surprised and embarrassed Becky by being very direct.
“Rachel tells me she is in love with you. That fact alone dictates that we should become acquainted, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely, ma’am.” Johnny smiled at her. Elisabeth was made of sterner stuff than Becky—or perhaps she was past the age of being bowled over by a man’s attractiveness. She did not appear visibly moved by his charm.
“I am glad you agree with me. That will make what I have to say much easier.” Elisabeth moved forward, but she stopped walking when she stood directly in front of the fireplace, perhaps six feet away. She folded her arms over her chest. Becky, having listened to her mother’s opening salvo with dismay, wished futilely for her sister’s instant presence. Her wish was in vain.
“You must know that I have strong misgivings about your relationship with Rachel. She is convinced that you are not a murderer, and at this point I feel that I have no choice but to go along with her admittedly better-informed view of you.” Elisabeth’s chin came up, her eyes flashed, and she took a few purposeful steps forward, pointing a menacing index finger straight at Johnny Harris’s nose. “But let me warn you, sirrah, that should harm befall my daughter while she is seeing you, I will hold you responsible, no matter what the police or the courts or anyone else might say. And I will get my husband’s gun and seek you out and shoot you myself. I’m an old woman, my life is almost done, and I have very little to lose by doing so. So you may believe that I mean precisely what I say. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Becky was relieved to see that Johnny
looked slightly amused. She’d been afraid, listening to her mother, that he would take offense and stalk out, and she would be left to explain everything to Rachel, including why she had not intervened. But then, when had anyone ever been able to stop their mother when she was hell-bent on doing or saying something?
“Good. Then perhaps you would be so good as to step along to the backyard and fetch Rachel and the girls. Ordinarily I would not ask a guest to do so, but she’s been on tenterhooks all morning waiting for you to get here. She meant to be inside when you arrived so that I wouldn’t have a chance to speak my piece. But I fancy you were a little early.”
“A little.” Johnny regarded Elisabeth steadily. “I’m glad I was, though. Because now I have a chance to speak my piece as well. You don’t have to fear that I’ll murder Rachel, because of course I won’t. But the rest of our relationship is strictly her concern, and mine. No one else’s.”
Elisabeth met Johnny’s eyes in a measuring glance that reminded Becky of nothing so much as two opponents weighing each other’s worth and recognizing the foe as formidable. Then Johnny smiled at Elisabeth, and Becky got the impression that the foils, having saluted, were now sheathed.
“I think I will go fetch Rachel. Excuse me.”
With a nod at both women, he left the room, and seconds later they heard the front door open and close. Elisabeth glanced at Becky.
“He’s not what I expected.”
“No.” Becky drew in a quick breath. “Mother, how could you say that to him? It was so rude.”
“Better rude than to have your sister end up like the other women he’s dated. Not that I sense that kind of viciousness in him, but how can anyone really tell? He’s a handsome boy, and not afraid to stand up for himself. I like that in a man. But it’s early yet to form an opinion of
him. We’ll see how this thing between him and Rachel goes.”
“Mother—”
“Oh, hush, Becky, and come into the kitchen. I need you to fill the glasses while I serve the soup.”
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