We sat there in silence until a sudden gust of wind make me shiver.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Freezing,” I admitted. “Georgia blood.”
“Come on.” He stood and reached down a hand to pull me to my feet. It seemed a natural gesture. My hand felt tiny in his, tiny and feminine. He released mine almost immediately, and I hated to lose the warmth. He took my scarf from me and wrapped it around my neck. The gesture seemed intimate out of all proportion until I reminded myself that he was a doctor. Keeping people from catching colds was in his job description.
He glanced over at me several times without speaking as we walked back to the Manor. When we reached the parking lot, he continued on with me to my car.
“I’ll keep an eye on your mother,” he said as I unlocked the car door. “I won’t let her wear herself out.”
“Thanks,” I said and meant it. “I worry about her.”
“She’ll be fine. She’s tough as nails.”
“Don’t I know it?” I climbed in the car and started the engine.
He stood watching as I drove away, and I wondered exactly what he saw.
Chapter Fifteen
I was glad Darren’s car was at his office. Although I’d seen his new house from the street, I had never been in it, and wasn’t at all sure I’d be comfortable there. Everything was still too new, too strange.
He sat slumped over his drafting table in the attitude of architects everywhere, shoulders rounded, head down, with one pencil behind an ear and another in his hand. A lot of design work gets done on computers these days with CAD, but there is still that need to print out drawings and labor over them by hand.
Darren appeared oblivious to the world around him. He was dressed as he usually was unless he had a client meeting, in jeans and a flannel shirt. Rugged looking. I thought his butt looked really sexy. After my earlier revelations about Klee and Jules Proctor, I decided my hormones must be running riot.
Darren’s office was smaller than Sam and Jeff’s, and remarkably tidier. Where our office smelled like mildew and dust, Darren’s was redolent with the odor of ink and glue and new paper. What Darren’s modern office might lack in charm, it made up for in efficiency.
Debbie, Darren’s long-time receptionist, usually manned the front desk. She had been in architecture longer than Darren and pretty much ran the office. She was small and round and motherly, and Darren had told me more times than I could count that he valued her above any other member of his staff. Her desk was empty now, and I glanced at my watch. After five. Debbie was probably where I ought to be, I mused. At home. Then I remembered who was waiting for me at home and decided I ought to be exactly where I was.
Darren didn’t notice me, but a few of his staff glanced at me curiously. I rarely visited the office. I recognized one or two of them. The rest were strangers. I didn’t know if any of them knew about the divorce. Deciding they probably didn’t, I gave them a little wave and a bright smile. Then I perched on a stool at another drafting table, loath to disturb Darren’s creative flow.
That was another thing you learned living for years with an architect. When they’re concentrating, let them. Not that Darren was ever short with me when I interrupted his work. He generally looked up at me with glazed eyes that were seeing another dimension entirely. He might even listen to what I said and nod, but would never remember doing so. It had caused more than one argument between us in our early years when Darren agreed to something and then had no recollection later.
Finally, he glanced up from his drawing and straight at me. He was still so lost in thought that it took him a few seconds to realize who I was. He straightened abruptly, giving me an embarrassed grin. “Been waiting long?”
“A couple of minutes. You were busy.”
He tried to put the pencil he was holding behind his ear and realized there was already one there. “I’ve got a presentation tomorrow afternoon, and it’s not coming together,” he said, dropping the pencil on the table and standing.
He walked over to me. “What brings you over here?” He stopped suddenly. “It’s not your father?”
“No. Dad’s pretty much the same.” I had kept Darren abreast of what was happening. After all, he had been Darren’s dad for a long time, too. “Got a few minutes?”
“Sure,” he said, leaning against the table.
“Can we go into your office?”
A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “Okay.”
He led the way. His office was a glass-walled room and small because he was rarely in it. Most of his time was spent in the studio with the other architects. “So, what’s up?” he asked the instant we crossed his threshold.
I took a seat in one of the leather directors chairs in front of his desk. Then I pulled off my scarf. Inadequate delay tactics, but all I had. “Greg’s come back to town,” I began.
Darren laughed, his relief obvious. “Is that all? I half expected that when he stormed out the other night. He still has some vacation in front of him. I didn’t figure he’d let his anger at us keep him away from Diane.” He leaned against his desk, relaxed now that he thought he knew the crisis. “He’s at the house?” When I nodded, he said, “Well, he won’t be around long enough to cause much trouble. A week or so.”
“He’s come back for a little longer than that.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
I inhaled. “He told me he’s taken a leave of absence from his job and sublet his apartment in California.”
“Why the hell would he— Oh, God,” he groaned as comprehension dawned. “Because of us.”
I heard someone laugh in the outside studio and found myself wishing I had something to laugh about. “I’m afraid so. He has some crazy idea he can still prevent the divorce.”
“Jesus Christ.” His head dropped forward, and he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you tell him it wouldn’t make a difference?”
“I tried. He wouldn’t listen.”
Darren said nothing, scowling out through the window into the studio. One of the young architects headed toward his office, then made an abrupt about-face with he saw Darren’s expression.
I had expected an explosion. I had expected him to rant and rave that Greg would damn well go back to California and leave us to live our lives. I had not expected what I saw when he looked back at me. His face was set, grim; in his eyes, fear.
“We’ll have to tell him, Lou. We can’t let him jeopardize his future because of some mistaken idea that he can save our marriage.”
I imagined my face was as grim as his. “That’s what Mother said, and you may both be right, but—”
“Lou—”
“But,” I overrode him, “I want to give it a few days, Darren. A week. Let’s give it a week and see what happens.” I couldn’t bear to break my son’s heart. Not until there was absolutely no alternative.
“But his job—”
“He’s already taken a leave of absence. He told them there was a family crisis. It won’t look any better if he goes straight back now. It may even look worse. If he still doesn’t see how futile his efforts are after a week, and if you still want to tell him, then…I’ll go along with it.”
He studied the floor.
“Please, Darren. Please give me a week.”
When he looked up again, the fear had been replaced with relief he tried to hide. “Okay. A week. Unless he starts giving you a hard time again. Then all bets are off.”
I’m certain I looked as relieved as Darren felt. “Good.” I got reluctantly to my feet. “I guess I’d better head home.”
“What’s your rush?”
“Well—” What was my rush? I had no intention of going home and playing the good mother to my grown son. I had meant what I said. If he was hungry, he could fix himself something to eat. He wasn’t a house guest, and he wasn’t an infant. He took care of himself in California. He could damn well do it here where he was less than welcome. The vehemence of
my thoughts surprised me, but the surprise didn’t change my mind. “No rush. Why?”
“A bunch of the guys and I are going out for a beer. Taking a break before getting back to it. Want to join us?”
His suggestion—going to a bar and listening to a bunch of architects discuss elevations and angles was only marginally better than the prospect of going home to face Greg, but it was enough of a margin. “Sure. Why not?”
* * * * *
It was after nine when I got home. A beer had extended to hamburgers and lots more conversation. Darren’s staff had gone out of their way to make me feel welcome. They were a nice bunch of kids—all closer to Greg’s age than mine and Darren’s. Still, they made me feel special and wanted. They definitely didn’t know about the divorce.
The flood lights were on when I drove up, and I felt a moment of gratitude to Greg for turning them on. I rarely remembered. I really ought to get Darren to set them up on a timer, I thought as I climbed out of the car.
Inside, the house was dark. I could see lights on in the kitchen at the back. I considered sneaking up the stairs and into my room before Greg saw me, but that would set a cowardly precedent. Instead, I marched into the kitchen.
Greg was sitting at the kitchen table, his feet up on the chair across from him. Although there was no evidence of it, I smelled pizza. At least he had provided his own dinner, but maybe not a very good one judging by the look on his face when I walked in.
“You got a phone call,” he said as I started fixing the coffee pot for the next day. “Some guy named Roger.”
Roger. I told him I’d call or come by today, but I had totally forgotten. I glanced at my watch. Would he still be at work? “Did he leave a number?” I asked, heading for the phone.
“He said you had it,” Greg answered, his voice bitter.
For about an instant, I considered telling Greg who Roger was, but I have a little perverse streak in me that chose that moment to rear its feisty head. “And so I do,” I said, smiling sweetly.
I got my address book out of my purse. I had tucked Roger’s card into it when I left his shop the week before.
I half-expected Greg to flounce out of the room in anger, but he stayed at the table, watching me as I dialed. “Roger,” I said when he answered, “it’s Lou Graham. What are you doing there so late?”
“I had a wedding to do,” Roger said. “A blushing bride and six tittering bridesmaids, for God’s sake, and they all wanted their hair exactly alike. No matter that four of them had short hair and the others long. No matter that three had perms and three had hair like limp spaghetti. No, they wanted to be six little clones.”
I laughed, acutely aware of Greg watching me. “How did it turn out?”
“Oh, perfect, of course. It takes more than impossible odds to defeat me. Speaking of impossible odds, what are the odds I can get you in here tomorrow for a little lesson? You were supposed to call me today, you know.”
I leaned against the wall. “I know I was, and I’m sorry. Time got away from me.”
“Well, you’re forgiven, you little social butterfly. The way today went, it’s probably a godsend you didn’t make it. I would have had you applying lip liner to your brows. So how about tomorrow? Is it a date?”
“It’s a date,” I confirmed. “What time.”
“Noonish? I had a cancellation, God love her. A little old transplanted New Yorker with pale pink hair. Talks your ear off if you give her a chance. I’ll have time to do something with your hair, too. It’s probably a horror by now.”
“It is not,” I said, glancing at my reflection in the black refrigerator door, “but noon sounds perfect. I’ll see you then.”
“Don’t forget your new makeup. I’m going to teach you a few new tricks.”
“I can’t wait,” I said wryly, and hung up.
Greg was still watching me when I turned. I knew he was waiting for some kind of explanation.
I ignored him and walked back over to the counter. I finished fixing the coffee and set the timer for eight the next morning. Then I turned. “I’m going to take a bath,” I said.
“You smell like a brewery,” he mumbled under his breath as I passed him.
“I imagine I do,” I answered with another smile.
I could hear him dialing the phone before I reached the stairs. Was he calling Jana to tell her about my wanton behavior, or Diane? Did it matter?
My steps grew weary as I reached the top stair. It was all very well to bluff it out in front of Greg. I was doing it because I was angry at him. Angry because, faced with needing someone to blame when his world changed, he chose me. I hadn’t expected him to take the divorce lightly. I knew he would be hurt and upset because his parents were hurting. I knew he would be sad. What child—young or grown—wouldn’t be when faced with his parents dissolving the union from which he or she sprang? What I hadn’t expected was his anger, his outright challenge to our right to privacy. I hadn’t expected to see condemnation in his eyes when he looked at me. Somehow, I needed to hang onto the fact that it was better than the alternative.
I put the old fashioned stopper in the tub and started the water. Then I reached into my small collection of bath salts and pulled out two. Essential Elements from Spa Sydell, Rosemary and Lavender. I rarely used them—they cost a bundle by my standards—but tonight constituted an emergency.
I sat on the side watching the water swirl as the tub filled and felt soothed by the fragrance of blended herbs from heaven. I found myself contrasting Jana and Greg’s reactions. I didn’t like to do that, compare one child to the other, but I couldn’t help it. And neither had reacted as I’d expected.
I thought Jana would be angry and accusing. She never hesitated to let me know how wrong she thought I was. In fact, she seemed to delight in it. It was only in the last few years that our relationship passed beyond that wary quality that colored it since her eighth birthday.
Not that anything had happened on that birthday. It seemed to be a thing inherent in daughters. At about eight years old, they turned into rebellious monsters. With any luck at all, at eighteen or twenty or so, they became human again. Every mother I talked to confirmed the phenomenon.
Jana took a little longer than most to come around, but she finally did. Still, I hadn’t expected her to be my champion in this. It was with surprise and a measure of relief that I saw only sorrow for Darren’s and my plight, and in her eyes and manner, only puzzlement and hurt—and maybe even a bit of sympathy.
I slipped out of my clothes and into the steaming water, resting my head against the back of the tub and chancing letting my curls get wet. Roger had threatened me with dire repercussions if I dared to so much as dampen my hair before I saw him again, so I’d sprayed it daily with perfume and tried to stay downwind of people. I couldn’t bear dirty hair. Surprising even myself, I looked forward to seeing Roger the next day. He made me laugh, at him and at myself, and that at this point in my life, constituted a gift greater than diamonds.
I sighed as the water began to loosen the knots in my neck. Greg’s reaction to Roger’s call wasn’t surprising. Not on the heels of the long stemmed roses from Klee. All I needed now was for Jules Proctor to knock at my door. A smile played around the corners of my mouth at the thought, but it faded when I heard a door close sharply downstairs.
Greg was different. Unlike Jana, he had always been loving and giving and supportive. I knew his first reaction would be anger, but I thought it would give way immediately to sorrow and, eventually, sad acceptance. Had I expected too much from him? It was easy to expect certain things from Greg because they had always been forthcoming. He acted as if I could do no wrong, as if I were the smartest and most beautiful woman in the world. He flattered me and teased me and treated me as if I were made out of crystal and would shatter if not handled gently. It was hard to resist, that hero worship from someone as lovable and giving as my son. If it sounded condescending now that I thought about it, it certainly hadn’t seemed patronizing w
hile it was happening. It seemed, quite simply, pleasant.
Did he really think he could dictate my life? Yes, I was his parent, and he had a stake in my decisions to that extent, but to judge my behavior? Would I—
The water around me seemed to grow cold. Hadn’t I done the same thing by judging my mother’s behavior? Yes. In most respects and certainly in relation to my father’s illness, I’d found her blameless. Admirable, actually. But I also passed a few judgments on her social life, her manner of dress. What right did I have to judge my mother? None. But how in the world could I not, at least in the secret places in my mind?
Was that how it was for Greg? Now that his illusions about his father and me were shattered, was judgment not inevitable? Was there something I could do to help him? Something I could say to make what was happening less painful?
With determination, I climbed out of the tub. I would talk to him, let him know that, however he behaved, I would try to understand. I would continue to love him.
As I slipped into my pajamas and robe, I heard a car drive up in front of the house. I crossed to the window and looked down in time to see Greg climb into Diane’s car, and I sighed. There would be no damage control tonight. At least, not by me.
* * * * *
Nor could there be the next morning. When I awoke, Greg was in his room asleep, and he was still asleep when I left the house an hour later. I was half surprised that he’d come home to sleep in his own bed. Probably making sure no one had joined me in mine. Well, when I next saw him awake, I would explain about going out for a beer with Darren and his crew and about Roger. There was nothing to be gained by feeding his suspicions.
An Irreconcilable Difference Page 15