That had been the hardest part to bear. At some point he'd stopped loving her, and then he'd stopped hating her. He had shown her nothing but indifference. He'd made his trips, had his affairs, ruined her life, and hadn't even cared.
Her fingers curled around the curved arms of the chair where she sat, pressing so hard that she was sure the wood's carved pattern would be visible on her fingertips. All her life she'd been blessed with passion, but too often it appeared in the form of anger, rage, helplessness, and hopelessness. She'd never felt anything in half measures.
Late this Friday evening, she felt hopeless. After last week's humiliation at the dance, she'd vowed to sober up, never again to do anything that might embarrass her daughter. She'd made it through the first few days, when she was sick as a dog with her hangover, when she was struggling with the burden of her shame, without even thinking about a drink. She'd made it though the next few days, too, but booze had been on her mind. Everything she did reminded her of drinking. Everything she ate would taste better, she was convinced, with a glass of wine, a snifter of brandy, or a good Irish beer. Awake, she craved it. Asleep, she dreamed of it.
Late this Friday evening, she'd given in to it.
She had waited until everyone was asleep and the desk clerk had gone home for the night before creeping downstairs to the kitchen. Not wanting to be greedy, she'd poured herself one watered-down drink. One, and that was all. It would satisfy her craving and still leave her as sober as a preacher.
One drink. She could handle that.
But one drink hadn't even taken the edge off her hunger. The second had done that. The third had begun to dissolve it. By the time she'd finished the fourth, she'd begun to feel normal again. The uneasiness was gone. The shakiness was disappearing, too. She was starting to feel like her old self again.
The trick was moderation. No more getting falling-down drunk. No more drinking to the point where she lost control of her tongue. No more appearing in public obviously intoxicated. She could have a few drinks—a mimosa with breakfast, wine with lunch and dinner, a cocktail or two in the evening. If that wasn't enough, then she would drink in her suite. Alone. Away from disapproving eyes. No one would find reason to complain, and Holly would have no cause to give her those looks. God, she hated those damning-her-to-hell McBride looks!
"What are you doing?"
Startled, Margery jumped, then watched her daughter emerge from the shadows of the back hallway. "You frightened me," she said, raising one hand to her chest in mock alarm. "For a moment I feared it was Millicent McBride come back to haunt me."
Holly stood utterly still, debating, Margery knew, whether to stay and talk or to flee her presence. She held her breath while waiting, then gave a tiny, inaudible sigh when her daughter moved closer. "Millicent hasn't shown herself in the last fifteen years."
"Of course not. I was gone. She never showed herself to anyone but me. Your father thought I was hallucinating. You thought I told charming tales … until you got older." It seemed as if it had happened in an instant. One moment her little girl had been bouncing on the bed, pleading, "Tell me about the ghost, Mama," and the next, she'd given her that haughty McBride look and asked coldly, "Drunk again, Margery?"
Holly's gaze shifted from Margery to the glass on the table beside her. Suspicion darkened her eyes, and her mouth tightened in a way that reminded Margery so much of Lewis. It created a tightness in her chest that threatened to suffocate her, that made her long for just one more taste of scotch to ease it. Instead, she smiled faintly. "It's just plain orange juice. Would you like some?" Her hand was less than steady when she offered the glass, but her gaze didn't waver as she watched Holly lift the glass, sniff, then take a sip. She'd had her scotch in the kitchen, then washed the glass well before filling it with juice. She was glad for the precautions as, with a flush, Holly returned the glass.
"Why are you sitting here looking at that picture?"
"I've been wondering why you chose to hang it. It's not exactly a portrait of a happy family."
"No, it isn't. But then, we weren't a happy family, were we?"
"And that was all my fault."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. It's what you've always thought. You never blamed your father for one thing, but me—" Catching herself, Margery dragged in a steadying breath. She'd promised herself before she'd come here that she was not going to do this. No arguments, no accusations, no laying blame. She'd done enough of that in her life.
Seeking a softer, less defensive tone, she asked, "Having trouble sleeping?"
"A bit."
"I—I like your young man."
Wariness changed to annoyance. "What made you think of him? The mention of the word sleep in connection with me? Do you just automatically assume that there's always someone in my bed?"
"N-no, no, not at all. It's just … I just assumed that he's the reason you're having trouble sleeping. Aren't men usually the reason women lose sleep?"
Holly still scowled at her, but the anger was slowly seeping from her pretty eyes and incredible mouth. Whatever problems Margery and Lewis had shared in their lives, and there had been plenty, they'd certainly created a beautiful daughter. Even without makeup in the middle of the night, she was lovely enough to make a mother's heart ache.
Even though she believed her mother didn't have a heart.
Grudgingly, Holly sat down in the opposite chair, tucking her bare feet underneath her. "Did you have a lot of sleepless nights with Daddy?"
"More than I could count." Once she'd found out about his affairs, she'd fretted every single night he'd slept someplace else. She'd wondered if he told his lovers the same sweet lies he'd once told her, if they were prettier than she, if they knew something she didn't and that was why he preferred their company to hers. When he came home, she'd always confronted him, and at first he'd sworn there was no one else. Then one day he'd stopped denying it. He'd simply given her that look, then ignored her. For the rest of their marriage.
"Why?"
Blinking, Margery looked at Holly.
"Why did you lose sleep over Daddy?"
There had been times when Margery had relished the idea of telling Holly every sordid detail. She'd threatened Lewis with it in arguments, had threatened to tell his precious little girl exactly what kind of man he was, and he'd threatened her right back with promises of divorce. He'd died before either could make good, and since then… A person was entitled to at least a few illusions about their parents. Since Holly had none about her mother, she should be allowed to hold on to the ones about her father.
"Living in Bethlehem, his travel schedule." Smiling weakly, she waved her hand. "Just things. You'll find out when you and your young man settle down."
"We're not getting married," Holly said through clenched teeth.
"I heard you'd said that."
"Then why didn't you believe it?"
"Because, baby girl, Tom Flynn didn't get to be one of the most powerful men in the state by taking no for an answer." Margery gave her a sidelong look. "What do you have against him?"
"Nothing."
"Then it must be the marriage part that's putting you off. Why?"
"Well, gee, let's consider that. It couldn't be because you and Daddy were so happy together. Couldn't have anything to do with the way you two fought all the time, now could it? Or the way you both got so angry and went off to lick your wounds and forgot all about me?"
She looked as if she expected an argument. Margery didn't give her one.
"You're right, we did. We were terrible parents, and we punished you for our own and each other's sins. But you're not like us, Holly. You're a lovely, intelligent, capable, generous woman. Any marriage you make will be in a different universe from ours."
Once the surprise disappeared from her face, Holly said, "That's not the only reason. I have no desire to be married. I don't need a man in my life."
"No, of course not. But they certainly come in handy fr
om time to time."
"You mean sex. I can get that without the constriction of marriage."
"Actually," Margery said with a delicate smile, "I meant when things go wrong. When the car won't start or your tire goes flat or you turn on the heat in the middle of a blizzard and get nothing but cold air. But, dear, as long as you mentioned it, that, too. Though if you make a good choice, it won't be just sex. It'll be lovemaking, and there's a difference. Trust me."
"I'm perfectly capable of calling a mechanic or a repairman to handle those kinds of problems, and whether you call it sex or lovemaking, it's still the same act. There can't be much of a difference."
"Spoken like a woman who's never been properly loved," Margery said with a sorrowful sigh. And was that her fault, too? Had she and Lewis neglected their daughter's emotional needs so completely she'd buried them away? Because they hadn't loved her the way they should have, did she believe she was unlovable? Or had she convinced herself that she was immune to love—didn't want it, didn't need it, was never going to have it?
God help them, she and Lewis had a lot to answer for.
Rather than respond, Holly left her chair and stalked barefoot across gleaming wood floors to the doors. "Is it still snowing?"
"I don't know. I haven't looked." Margery followed her, but kept her distance. When Holly leaned against the jamb on one side of the double doors, she leaned against the other. "Oh, it is. Isn't it lovely?"
"I've never heard you say anything the least bit complimentary about this house or this town."
Margery smiled. "Snow covers a myriad of sins. Even you would find beauty in New York blanketed by snow."
"Maybe." Gazing out again, Holly casually said, "You must be missing it. When are you going back?"
Truthfully, Margery did miss it, but not the way she had before. The older she got, the more acutely she felt the emptiness in her life, regardless of where she was. The things she'd missed so terribly about the city weren't the things that, in the long run, truly mattered. If they were—if life in the city were so perfect—why did she drink to cope there, just as she had in Bethlehem? If her life was so good there, why was she so damned lonely?
"Don't worry, dear. I'll get out of your hair soon." Before Holly could feel obligated to respond graciously, she changed the subject. "I like that girl Bree. You know, she seems so familiar to me. Does her family have some connection to Bethlehem? Are they people I might have met?"
Holly gazed at her for a moment, then the wariness slowly faded. "I doubt it. As far as I know, she has no ties to the town. She just left home without much money and wound up here. But you're right. There is something familiar about her."
"One of these days I'll figure it out." Margery faked a yawn, then glanced at the grandfather clock that had tormented her every waking hour when she'd lived in the farmhouse. Now she found its steady ticking and relentless chiming of passing hours oddly comforting. "It's almost two o'clock. We'd better get to bed." She started up the stairs, then turned back. "I enjoyed talking with you tonight, Holly. Thank you."
Turning away from her daughter's puzzled, distrustful look, she held her head high and climbed the stairs to the second floor. There she let herself into her room, closed and locked the door, sat down on the bed … and began to cry.
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
The snow stopped during the night, leaving a few inches on the ground that quickly turned to slush in the streets. Bundled against the cold, Agatha Winchester stood on the porch of the house she shared with her sister and watched the activity in the yard. Nathan Bishop was shoveling her driveway, and Brendan, his young nephew, was at work on the sidewalk. Considering that Brendan's shovel was child-sized, and he had to cope with both the tool and Ernest, his beloved stuffed bear, he was making good progress, Agatha thought, and she didn't hesitate to tell him so. With a heart-tugging grin, he thanked her, persuaded Ernest to give her a wave, then returned to work.
"Miss Agatha, come build a snowman with us," Josie, Brendan's eight-year-old sister, called. She and Alanna, the oldest of the Dalton children, had gathered a rather dirty snow-could and were starting to work on the head.
Rather than point out that there really wasn't enough snow for a proper snowman, or question the appropriateness of a woman her age building snowmen at all, Agatha went down the steps to join them. Josie met her halfway and enveloped her in a hug. "Guess what, Miss Agatha? Lannie's birthday is coming soon, and she's gonna be twelve years old, and guess what she wants?"
"Josie!" Alanna warned, but that didn't deter her sister one bit.
"Caleb Brown!" Josie declared. "All she wants for her birthday is Caleb Brown with a great big bow on his head!"
Alanna made a grab for Josie, caught the hood of her jacket, then smashed a handful of snow on her blond curls. "Shut up, you little brat, or I'll bury you inside this snowman."
"Uncle Nathan, Lannie told me to shut up, and Aunt Emilie says we're not s'posed to say that!"
Nathan looked up from the driveway. "Girls."
It was all he said, all that was needed to make Josie roll her eyes, then brush the snow from her hair. Alanna rolled her eyes, too, then muttered, "She's such a pest."
"She's a little sister, dear. That's what she's supposed to be." Agatha gave the girl a smile. Alanna Dalton was quite possibly the prettiest girl in all of Bethlehem, not that Agatha was prejudiced, of course. Everyone knew she had a crush on Caleb Brown, the eldest of J.D. and Kelsey's adopted children, and everyone knew her feelings were returned—everyone, it seemed, but Alanna and Caleb. They were so cute together, so innocent and sweet. Theirs well might be one of those rare childhood loves that lasted forever.
Or, she acknowledged silently, it could be a meaningless infatuation that would soon pass. But the romantic in her hoped for the former.
Most folks would laugh at the notion that a romantic lived within her. She was past seventy, an old maid. Her time for romance had come and gone. Plenty of her friends would tell her to put such foolishness out of her head.
But she was old, not dead. And if she wanted to pass her days dreaming of a certain man's attention, that was her business and no one else's. After more than fifty years without Sam, she was entitled to whatever foolishness in which she chose to indulge.
"Ready, Miss Agatha?"
Jarred from her thoughts, Agatha realized they were ready to lift the ball onto the snowman's base. She bent, slid her gloved hands underneath and listened to Alanna count.
"One, two, thr—"
"Hey, Lannie, there's Caleb," Josie teased. "Quick, go comb your hair an' check your clothes an' pretend you're not 'magining him with a great big dumb birthday bow on his head." She made loud smooching sounds, then said breathily, "Oh, Caleb! I'm so glad to see you. I've missed you so much."
"Uncle Nathan!" Alanna pleaded at the same time as he spoke her sister's name in a warning tone.
Agatha turned her attention to the vehicle pulling to the curb. The instant she saw Bud behind the wheel, she fought the girlish urge to check her own appearance. She was too old for that sort of nonsense … but not for the shivers that danced down her spine. She would never be too old for the giddy pleasure the mere sight of the man brought her.
The children approached first, respectfully greeting her and Nathan before joining the Dalton children. Bud acknowledged Nathan with a nod and a jocular greeting about some shoveling needed at their place, if his back held up. Then he slowly—finally—brought his attention to her. "Miss Agatha," he said politely. "This cold weather has brought a bloom to your cheeks."
Feeling shy, charmed, and tongue-tied all at once, she demurely lowered her gaze. "Why, yes, I—I suppose it has. What brings you into town this fine morning?"
"I promised my grandchildren lunch in town—and my son and daughter-in-law a few hours of peace and quiet. We're having a bit of a disagreement, though. The kids want burgers and hot-dogs at Harry's, while I was envisioning something a little
more refined. I understand the restaurant at the McBride Inn is very good."
"Yes, it is."
"Trey and Caleb were eager to propose a solution, of course. They feel they're quite capable of looking out for the younger children for an hour or two. Seeing that Caleb took care of them for nearly two full months after their father's death, I'm inclined to believe them."
"I'm sure it's an excellent solution." She'd never seen a more capable child than Caleb—or Trey.
"There's just one problem." Bud removed one glove and combed his hand through his white hair. "After my wife died, I never did get the hang of eating alone in restaurants. It's difficult to enjoy good food when you're wishing for someone to talk to. So I was thinking… If you don't have plans … and you wouldn't mind…" Getting a bit of a bloom in his own cheeks, he took a deep breath, then rushed the words: "Would you do me the honor of having lunch with me, Agatha?"
Slowly she smiled. She felt as if the sun had come out on a dreary day, or an unexpected hot spell had driven winter's chill away. "It would be my pleasure, Bud," she said. And she truly meant it.
* * *
"What do you normally do with your free time?"
Holly regarded Tom though the steam rising from the china cup she held carefully with both hands. "What free time?"
"You get weekends off."
"Well, I'm spending this one answering questions from you. My last weekend off, I went to Buffalo, where you were much less inquisitive."
"That was before you turned down my proposal. Before you insisted we get to know each other first."
"I did not—" Seeing his grin, she swallowed her protest and settled on a sigh instead. "You know, most couples get to know each other by simply knowing each other. You find out that I like to shop by spending time following me in and out of stores. I find out that you like action movies by getting dragged to every one that comes out."
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