"Chasing after my own youth, I guess. Trying to find it with somebody who was as young as I wished I was."
"But you were young." She leaned forward earnestly. "You were only thirty-five, Tommy Lee."
Again her recordkeeping struck him, but he made no issue of it. "Rachel, I've felt old since I was twenty-one, fresh out of college, marrying some woman because it was the acceptable thing to do."
"That was different. She was your own age, and you were starting out together. With Sue Ann I always had the feeling you were throwing her in your parents' faces."
"How could I throw her in their faces when we weren't even talking to each other?"
"You know what I mean. Flaunting her, choosing the worst woman the town had to offer. They were just as aware of what a mess you were making of your life as everyone else in Russellville. Through the years I've often felt you came back to do it
under their noses just to humiliate them."
He pondered, studying her steady eyes. "Maybe I did. God, I don't know. You as much as admitted there were times when you had the urge to get even with your parents, too."
"Yes. Times. But I wasn't raised that way, Tommy Lee, and neither were you. I realize they were as fallible as anybody else. They made their decision because they loved me and thought it was best for me."
There was a stern edge to his voice and his brows drew downward. "But it wasn't, Rachel, was it?"
Her heart thundered heavily as she met Tommy Lee's eyes and wondered if her own disillusionment showed as openly as his. "My life with Owen was very good," she argued, perhaps a little too quickly.
Tommy Lee's eyes swept around the room, returned to her before he asked very simply, "But where are the children, Rachel?"
Her polished lips fell open and a pained expression etched her eyes. Beneath the draping silk blouse he saw her breasts heave up once, as if she were struggling for control. He was
terribly sorry to do this to her, but what
99 she'd suffered--if she had--was important to him.
She dropped her eyes to her empty glass and admitted quietly, "We were never able to have any."
"Why?"
Their eyes met, delved deeply, and he saw fissures of vulnerability within the woman who always appeared so carefully in control. She pondered the advisability of revealing the truth to the man who'd fathered the only child she'd ever been able to have, but somehow it seemed right that he should know. Her lips trembled, paused in shaping the first word, but finally she got it out. "I ... I was allergic to Owen's sperm."
He couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd slugged him. His jaw dropped and he tried to speak, but nothing came out. Though she was hidden by the table from the waist down, his eyes dropped to the point where her stomach must be, then as he realized where he was gazing, they flew back to her face again. But his own face was a mask of regret.
"Ironic, isn't it?" Rachel added. "But it's true."
"I've never heard of such a thing," he blurted out.
Her face was slightly pale, his growing increasingly pink as she went on, chafing her crossed arms as they rested on the table edge. "It's not all that uncommon. It seems my body had an excessive sensitivity to his semen, and put up what they called an immunologic reaction to it. I actually created antibodies that prevented the sperm from reaching the egg to fertilize it."
He was stunned by the queer twist of fate that had made her pregnant at a time in her life when she didn't want to be, but had prevented pregnancy during the years when it was what she must have most desired. Yet she stated it all with apparent clinical coolness while he sat before her, greatly discomfited by the personal revelation. Still, something forced him to go on.
"Couldn't anything be done about it?"
"Believe me, we tried. I visited gynecologists as far away as Rush Medical Center in Chicago. Different doctors said it could be treated in a number of ways, but none of them had a history of success. I took
drugs, but some of them had unpleasant
101 side effects. We even tried artificial insemination--something to do with bypassing the cervix and going directly to the womb--but that didn't work, either. In some women the antibodies disappear by themselves after a while, but I wasn't so lucky. More than one doctor felt that reducing my exposure to the sperm would reduce the sensitivity and the antibodies would disappear, or at least decrease enough so that I could conceive. We tried long periods of no contact, but when we resumed, there still was no pregnancy."
He drew a hand down his face, covering his mouth for a moment while studying her solemnly. Then he took one of her hands in both of his. "Rachel, I'm so sorry."
She met his empathetic eyes and saw how uneasy he was with the intimate subject, after all. She was disquieted, too, but forced herself to maintain a poised exterior. "It's all right. I've learned to live with it."
"But, Rachel, our ba--was
"Don't say it!" she warned, raising both palms, closing her eyes momentarily.
But he didn't need to say it, for the awful
truth scintillated between them as their gazes met again. Together they had conceived the only child she was likely to have, and their parents had decreed that it be taken from her and given to strangers in Flint, Michigan. He felt devastated for her and curiously guilty, as if he'd unwittingly slighted her in some way.
At last he said shakily, "It should have been me you were allergic to."
She reached across the table and pressed her fingertips to his lips. "Shh." She'd thought the same thing countless times. What if ... what if ..." But it was shattering to hear him put her thoughts into words.
He grasped her hand and lowered it to the table. "God, Rachel, I feel so guilty. Me with three kids and my life so loused up not one of them is with me. It makes me realize I should have worked harder at being a better father, tried to make them shape up and make something of themselves." The expression about his lips grew soft and his eyes roved her face lovingly. "You'd have been so good at that. You'd have been a good mother, the kind who turns out successes."
"Maybe so. But it's too late to think about
it, isn't it?"
103
Yes, he thought sadly, it's probably too late. The room grew quiet. She picked up their glasses and took them to the sink and he knew he should leave. But there were so many more questions he wanted to ask, and their time together had been too short. Walking away from her would be more difficult than ever, especially after the intimate discussion that had him feeling closer to her than he had in years. But he picked up his glasses from the table, slipped them on and crossed to stand behind her.
She felt his presence at her shoulder, but forced herself to remain as she was, staring out a black window over the sink. The words she forced herself to say were more difficult than she'd ever imagined they could be.
"I'm very tired, Tommy Lee. I think it's time--was
"You don't have to say any more, Rachel. I'm on my way out. Thank you for the drinks."
"You're welcome."
Neither of them moved. He studied the back of her neat black hair and a diagonal wrinkle on her violet blouse where it had been pressed against the chair. She smelled so good, so feminine.
"Rachel," came his strained voice, "I'd like to see you again."
She gripped the edge of the sink. "No," she replied shakily, "I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Because it's too painful."
"We could work on that, couldn't we?"
"Could we?"
"Once all the skeletons are out of the attic, we'll feel better."
"If tonight is any indication, I don't think so."
"I didn't mean to hurt you by coming here, you know that, don't you?" He turned her by an elbow, but she stared at his top button instead of his appealing eyes. "Rachel, I'm sorry. I wish I could make it all up to you. You're the one who deserved three more babies, not me."
Her throat constricted suddenly. "Shh ... don't. In spite of what I've told you tonight, Owen and I were happy. We really were. We were compatible, we had money, success. That was enough. Children aren't everything, you know."
Beneath his fingers her elbow trembled, but she wisely drew it from his grasp. He gazed down
at the top of her head, but she refused
105 to look up. "Could I take you to dinner some night and we'll talk about more pleasant things?"
And start all over again? she thought. But there was no starting over, only picking up from where they were. The load they had to carry was too heavy, and they had changed so much. Too much for things to work out between them.
"I'm sorry--the answer is no."
"Just dinner--was
But she knew he wanted more than dinner. "No. I'm not in the market for dinner, or dates, or ... or ..."
"All right. I won't push it." He turned and she followed him through the dining and living rooms to the entry. She opened the door and stood back, but he made no move to exit, standing instead with both hands buried in his trouser pockets, staring at his shoes. When at last he lifted his head, the question in his eyes could not be concealed by the tinted lenses. What he wanted tingled in the air between them. One hand came out of his pocket and he reached up to lift the tiny gold giraffe on a single fingertip. He leaned closer ... but the scent of scotch came with him, reminding her of the changes that
could not be denied.
She pressed her hands to his chest and turned aside. "Don't, Tommy Lee," she whispered.
His head was half bent toward the kiss. It remained that way while his eyes swam over her and he absently fingered the giraffe. Then he dropped it against her skin. "You're right. It was a stupid idea."
Her heart was thrumming crazily. Beneath his shirt she felt his doing the same. For a moment she was tempted, for old times' sake, but common sense prevailed and she withdrew to take up her pose as doorkeeper, outwardly poised, unruffled, one hundred percent a lady. He backed off politely, leaving her feeling vaguely disappointed and oddly guilty--it had been years since she'd had occasion to deny a man a kiss, and it was no less embarrassing now than it had been as a teenager. But she forced her eyes to meet his, and knew beyond a doubt that saying no was best for both of them.
"Good night, Rachel," he said, stepping out.
"Good-bye, Tommy Lee."
At her choice of farewell words he turned,
gave her a last lingering look, then
107 spun away. She watched him until he was halfway down the sidewalk, heading for his Cadillac. Then she closed the door, leaned her forehead against it, and fought the tears.
CHAPTER FOUR
During the days that followed, Rachel tried to put Tommy Lee out of her mind. Her father and Marshall helped tremendously. Everett had taken to popping in unexpectedly in the evenings, and Marshall, whose two daughters were already grown and married, found it easy to do the same. On her three days a week at Rachel's house, Callie Mae always stayed until Rachel got home in the late afternoon. She would cast a droll eye on Rachel's slim profile, remind her there was a chocolate pie--or some such calorie-filled delight--in the refrigerator, then chastise, "If you don't put some meat on them bones, you gonna quit castin' a shadow, Miss Rachel."
Rachel would smile and tease, "You won't rest until I'm wearing a size sixteen, will
you, Callie Mae?"
But Rachel's appetite remained paltry, and eating alone seemed to decrease it even more. But if Rachel often passed up Callie Mae's offerings, Marshall never did. He came often, to share a meal, to check on Rachel, or to "get her out of the house," as he put it. Having shared many of the same friends for years, it seemed quite natural that together they'd round out a table at bridge, attend backyard barbecues or an occasional movie, and even go shopping for the new furnishings for the master bedroom, which Rachel had decided to have redecorated.
Owen's life insurance had come through, and Marshall solemnly delivered the check shortly after Rachel's return from St. Thomas, then, together with Everett, mapped out the investment plan they deemed most prudent.
The three of them fell into the habit of driving up to one of the nicer clubs in Florence for dinner each Friday night, and though Rachel was most often grateful for their company, there were times when she felt smothered by them. Marshall was very much like Owen in many ways--quiet, steady, sensible, but, to her dismay, a bore. She grew tired of listening
to him talk about his chief pastime--taking
109 meticulous care of his yard. And of her father talking about his chief pastime--money and its management. Often when she was with them she found herself withholding sighs: Bermuda grass, investments, azalea bushes, interest rates, annuities, pruning, IRA accounts ... The two of them droned on about the same dull subjects while Rachel grew listless.
But whenever they were not there Rachel found herself wishing she had children. How different these days would be if she could return home each day to the sound of their voices in the house, perhaps the blare of a stereo from one of the bedrooms, the clatter of a tennis racket being dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor, even the sound of adolescent bickering. She could imagine one of them coming to her, complaining, "Mother, will you tell him--was Or her ...