"That's all?" He raised the bottle to his mouth again and drank deeply, then ran his tongue over his lips before he continued. "'We just need a little of your marrow, Charlie, thank you very kindly. We'll be on our way, and you can get lost again.' Is that what you had in mind, Molly?"
"How could you do this to me?" He lashed the words at her. His hand closed around the bottle so tightly she thought the thick glass might crack. "You, more than anybody, always knew what family was to me."
That was true. In that moment she was reminded of the stories she'd heard of others with his heritage. The savage Scots, to whom clan was everything. Blood was all. Only what he was saying implied a betrayal of that blood so primal it left her speechless.
"Did you hate me so much?" His voice was barely a whisper, but harsh all the same.
"I never hated—" She didn't go on. That wasn't what she had said when they'd parted that last time. Even now, the words echoed loud in her memory.
“I hate you. Get out!”
“If I leave this time, I ain't comin' back.”
“I can't imagine any reason I'd want you back.”
They'd been young, reckless, irresponsible, their quarrels as fiery as their love. Who would have guessed that this one would be their last? Who could have predicted that four weeks later, he'd be a star? And she'd be pregnant.
He turned from her and hurled the bottle into the trash. She flinched, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. She'd seen him silly with drink, lazy after loving, lost in total concentration for the words and music he was creating, doubled over with laughter at some prank he'd pulled. She'd never, until this moment, been afraid of him.
She took a breath and opened her mouth to tell him the words that would exonerate her. The ones that would shift the blame to someone else. Someone who could never tell him of her regret. Someone who could never right this wrong. This would be a blight forever on a person precious to him.
She said nothing, and the moment passed.
He pivoted toward her, his hands curled around the edge of the table behind him. "Why, Molly? Can you give me a reason? Make me understand."
She shrugged, playing for time, struggling to come up with a reason it had never occurred to her she might need. "Pride, mostly. After the words we'd had, I just couldn't come to you, begging." She hadn't noticed the faint flicker of hope in his eyes until she saw it die and the bleakness that replaced it.
"Your damn pride."
Pride had come between them before, though mainly his, he had to admit. Much as he'd loved her, he'd never asked her to marry him. Not until he could measure up, in his own eyes at least, he'd told himself. Not until he had some degree of success. He remembered how it had humiliated him to come to her, his fingers still stained with the soot from the mill that had sifted through his canvas work gloves. How it had shamed him to touch her pale skin with hands no amount of scrubbing could clean. If she'd ever felt the same, she'd never showed it, never recoiled from his touch. He'd never have believed her capable of this duplicity.
"What do you want from me, Charlie?"
She had the gall to ask. "The years I lost with my son," he snarled. "Did you think you could be everything to him? One parent was enough? It's pretty obvious which parent he needs now."
She reeled as if he had struck her. "You wouldn't try to take him from me?" she whispered past bloodless lips.
Watching her, he felt his gut clench. Even now, angry as he was, he couldn't cause her that kind of pain. "No. I wouldn't do that. It would hurt him at least as much as you."
He walked over to the sink, turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. He'd been tired before, but nothing like this. This weariness went bone deep, and no amount of rest would ease it.
"Where is he?" he asked, toweling himself dry.
"He's in the hospital, Greater Pittsburgh Metro. It's just a precaution right now," she added quickly, seeing his head come up, the concern—was it fear?—in his expression. "His resistance is very low. He's being isolated from anything that might be contagious. We live up there," she said as an afterthought.
He gave her a long look, his face unreadable. "I'll get some things together and we'll drive up." He tossed the towel over the bar alongside the sink. "We're gettin' married."
Molly went still at his words, unable to breathe. Why was he doing this? "We don't have to...I would never try to keep him from you, Charlie."
One corner of his mouth lifted in a humorless smile, a sad reminder of the ones he used to give her years ago. "You'll pardon me if I have a little trouble believing that." Before she could respond, he added, "What did you think, Molly? That I would donate my marrow and walk out of your lives?" He approached her then, leaning over her, his hands braced on the arms of her chair. "You know, like I did my sperm."
She searched his eyes, trying to fathom the reasons for his insistence. "Why marriage, Charlie? You don't want me." She shook her head, confused, floundering. "Because of what your fans will think? For the sake of your career?"
Her words only seemed to rile him further. "Don't throw the celebrity bit in my face," he cautioned her. "If you remember anything at all about me, you know that means less than nothing."
"Why, then? Tell me."
He appeared to hesitate for just a moment, and she sensed his motives weren't entirely clear even to himself. His words were slow, measured when he replied.
"The men in my family are there for their children, Molly. We marry their mothers. It's what we do. It's the way I was brought up."
She saw more in his eyes than he was aware he revealed. He was angry, yes. But he was hurting, too. What he thought she had done cut right to the core of what being a man meant to him. The truth would only hurt him more. She couldn't do that.
She felt his warm fingers under her chin, tipping her face to his. "Do you need a proper proposal, Molly?" His words were sarcastic, biting, but uttered with firm resolution. "It appears I should have asked you years ago. Will you marry me?"
There it was, stark and unsentimental. Not the proposal of her dreams. Still, it had come from Charlie, the man who had haunted her dreams. She had loved him as a child, and in the first blush of young womanhood. She had never loved anyone else.
And then there was the issue of the transplant. Without one, Tobie would die. That had been made manifestly clear to her. Though she didn't doubt now that Charlie would help regardless of her answer, marriage would strengthen her claim with his family, should that prove necessary. His demand seemed so little in exchange for so much.
"Moll," he prompted, the fingers on her chin tightening.
"Yes," she answered firmly, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Yes, I will marry you."
His eyes glittered for just a moment with what might have been satisfaction. Then he straightened away from her, his expression shuttered once more. "Come on," he said. "It's time I met my son."
Chapter 2
A couple of phone calls, a few final words to Harlan, and they were ready to leave. Charlie grabbed the duffel bag he'd packed and guided Molly out the rear exit of the music hall to where her car was parked in the lot that backed up to the river. He held out his hand for her keys and tried not to think about that little cove off to the left where
8th Street
dead-ended at the water's edge. There, years ago, with the gentle lapping of the Ohio as background music, in the privacy afforded by the low, overhanging branches of willows and cottonwoods, he and Molly had introduced each other to all the delights that youth and love and hormones could offer.
At least he'd been introduced. Green as he was at the time, he'd never been too sure about her. He'd learned a thing or two since, and become even more convinced it hadn't been all that great for Molly.
He was surprised to see she still drove the little blue car she'd gotten as a high-school graduation present. In the glow from the parking-lot lights, he noted the rust around the lock when he opened the hatch to stow his bag. The whole shebang see
med to be patched together with chicken wire and duct tape.
He moved to the passenger side where Molly waited. "This door only opens from the inside," she said.
Walking around the front end, he opened the other door and folded himself into the car. With his knees bumping the dash, he eased the driver's seat back and reached across the console to get the door for Molly. He squinted at the odometer while she settled herself next to him. Fourteen thousand some odd miles. Obviously on its second time around.
"It's paid for," she said, staring straight ahead.
He turned the key in the ignition, glad to hear it catch on the first try. Clearly she wasn't the hotshot lawyer she'd figured on becoming, he thought as he backed the car out of its space and pulled onto Main. For the first time he wondered how she, as a single parent, supported herself and the boy. His son. She'd been nearly finished with college when they'd split, but her new responsibilities must have put a crimp in any future education plans.
In the brighter light of the Wheeling Tunnel, he stole a glance at her. Chin high, eyes level, back straight. Same old Molly. If she'd had a tough time of it, she'd be the last one to say so. That must have been a pretty scene with her momma, though, telling her she was carrying that no-good Cochrane boy's bastard. Of course by that time her mother wouldn't have been much help, anyway. From what he'd heard, they'd been living in genteel poverty since paying off the debts her daddy had left.
He checked his side mirror and merged on to the interstate, then slid another look her way. "I was sorry to hear about your momma." He saw her swallow and press her lips together before she turned away.
"I'll bet."
Okay. It was a lie. Not much of a lie. He'd felt bad for Molly when he'd heard. He was in Germany on that first European tour when word had reached him. It had been too late for flowers, so he'd sent a card, hoping it would reach her some way. It caught up with him when he got back to the States, marked Addressee Unknown. She'd done a good job of disappearing with his son. He shot another quick glance at her. He could play a little tit for tat.
"I was surprised when you didn't show up for Lucy's funeral. You two were thick once. But then," he said evenly, "you're full of surprises."
Molly closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the rest. Lucy, Lucy, she said to herself, what have you done to us? She and Lucy, Charlie's only sister, had been the same age. Attending different elementary schools, though, they hadn't really become close until sixth grade. From that point on, through middle and much of high school, they'd been inseparable. Lucy, the youngest child and only girl, had been spoiled and pampered as only a family with little money and lots of love can manage. Willful and adventuresome, she'd gotten herself—and Molly—into countless scrapes, but there always seemed to be an older brother, very often Charlie, around to bail them out Later, as they got older, they'd drifted apart. Lucy grew interested in ever more risky pursuits. And Molly...well, Molly had grown ever more interested in Charlie.
Resentment had resulted, Molly knew. She'd taken Lucy's place as the number-one female in Charlie's affections. But Molly had never suspected how deep that well of resentment might run. When she'd discovered she was pregnant, Charlie was away on the tour his record company had arranged. After years of booking local h6nky-tonks, Charlie had gotten some nationwide airplay for his music, and he'd become the classic "overnight" success. Molly asked Lucy to intercede for her with him, never doubting her when she returned with his answer. It wasn't a convenient time for him, on the cusp of his career, to start a family. If she needed money to take care of things, that was no problem.
Within weeks, armed with her shiny-new Liberal Arts degree, a generous supply of soda crackers, and whatever belongings she could squeeze into her car, she'd left Wheeling forever. She'd read, along with the rest of the world, of the newest Country sensation's grief when his baby sister took that rain-slick curve a little too fast and plunged her Trans-Am off the edge of Chicken Neck Hill. Big with his child, Molly had shed her own tears in private.
"What did you tell him—" Charlie's words interrupted her reverie "—when he asked about his father?"
Molly opened her eyes and stared out the passenger window, getting her bearings. They had reached Washington, Pennsylvania, where They would catch Interstate 79, a straight shot into Pittsburgh. "I told him, if his father knew him, he would love him. He didn't ask any more than that."
That was true, as far as it went. How many questions had Tobie suppressed, afraid to hurt or, worse, anger her? Children could be exquisitely sensitive to the moods of their caretakers. Tobie had no one but her. His very silence said a lot.
She turned her head on the seat back to look at Charlie, wondering at what was going through his mind. Even being in his presence this short time, she recognized the familiar pattern of their quarrels from long ago. His tendency to act first and reflect later. His typical hotheadedness, followed by his more thoughtful, generous response. Now his face was a study in quiet concentration. She closed her eyes again, remembering the first time she had seen him wear that look...
"He's not really reading that."
"I don't think anybody really reads those magazines, Lucy." Molly peered through the porch-rail slats at the slick cover displaying a pouty-mouthed woman with truly amazing breasts. She hunched her shoulders, feeling her own thirteen-year-old chest more than a little inadequate.
"No. I mean he's not even looking at the pictures!" Lucy turned to Molly and said in her best conspiratorial whisper, "He's writing a poem." The way she said the word, it rhymed with "home." She giggled. "He hides 'em in his Playboys 'cause he thinks I won't look."
"You shouldn't look." But Molly continued to stare, fascinated in spite of herself. They were crouched in the bushes, their eyes level with the porch floor, and to her pubescent heart Charlie looked like a reclining god.
He sprawled lackadaisically on an old wooden swing that hung by creaking chains from the tongue and groove ceiling of the wraparound porch. One long, narrow, bare foot pushed at the floor occasionally, setting the swing in wobbly motion. Charlie's other leg was propped on the seat, its raised knee supporting the arm that held that raunchy magazine.
He'd bulked up nicely, Molly mused, since she'd last had a really good look at him. His shoulders weren't bony anymore, but a long, smooth, muscular line that looked to be a yard wide. He appeared to have a good start on some of those bodily changes Mrs. Richards was discussing in Health class, too. Tufts of curly dark hair sprouted around his nipples. They were still called nipples on a man, if she remembered correctly. They just didn't work. Coarse hair surrounded his belly button, too. Navel in polite company. Umbilicus if you're really being fancy-schmancy. Whatever. The hairs merged into a single thin line that arrowed down into his low-riding jeans.
She knew what lurked there, where that line ended. Not firsthand, mind, but intellectually speaking. She'd pored over the pictures in her Family Studies book, the ones showing the stair-step progression from little boy infant, to toddler, to adolescent, to man fully grown. Judging from the bulge in the soft, clingy denim, Charlie was rapidly closing in on full grown.
A warm flush washed over her, not wholly related to the steamy afternoon. Watching Charlie, she felt as lazy and languid as the fat bees playing bumper cars in the spirea that girdled the porch.
But this was Charlie, and she felt a little guilty thinking about him like this, gawking at him like this. She dragged her gaze up to his face and was just as enraptured by what she saw there.
He wasn't reading the magazine, she'd bet a month's allowance on that. His eyes were focused somewhere beyond it. His brows knit to a single black line with the effort of his concentration and he worried his upper lip with his teeth. He held a pencil in his right hand and scribbled intermittently on the magazine. Or something in it.
"C'mon."
Molly turned at Lucy's elbow jab and saw her companion rounding the corner post. She followed close as they crept low along the front of the po
rch to the stairs that came up behind Charlie. Swallowing her misgivings, she was right there when Lucy reached over her brother's shoulder and snatched the white loose-leaf paper out of his hand.
"Hey! Give that back!" He was out of the swing in a flash, whacking Lucy about the head and back with the magazine while she covered her head with her arms, laughing and shrieking. When the magazine disintegrated, finally, from the abuse, Lucy took off down the porch steps and across the yard, handing the paper off to Molly as she went.
Molly and Charlie faced each other, the swing between them, each weighing the other's determination.
"Give it to me, Molly," Charlie demanded, breathing hard. Molly's own breathing quickened. She shook her head, eyes sparkling, clutching the paper to her chest.
He dove for her over the swing, taking her to the floor with him when the swing flipped. He twisted to avoid landing on her, and she took advantage of the chance his considerate move afforded her, shoving the paper up under her shirt. It didn't register immediately that his hand had followed, until she felt him go very still. Her laughter stopped and she sucked in sharply, as she stared into his dark, dark eyes, only inches from her own, and slowly became aware of his fingers curled over her naked breast.
He rolled away from her like a shot, but not before she detected the change in his lower body, where the firm ridge behind his zipper prodded her thigh. Trying to rise, he cracked his head against the swing and spat out a word she'd heard before, but not from him. He got to his feet, rubbing his head, and slammed into the house.
Confused and close to tears, Molly crumpled the paper until it was nothing but a damp wad in her palm. She looked about for Lucy, but her friend had disappeared. Her father should be coming by for her soon. She sat on the top step and leaned against the peeling white post to wait.
She heard a phone ring in some far corner of the house, and a few minutes later Mrs. Cochrane poked her head out the screen door.
Bad For Each Other Page 2