by Helen Conrad
The waiter served their food and refilled their wineglasses. There was a quiet moment while they each sampled what was on their plates. Carrie was just in the middle of praying that it was the Maxwell custom to eat silently when Jerry’s head jerked up.
“Oh, my God, look who’s here. Eleanor Ashland.”
Heads were turning all over the restaurant. Even Mrs. Maxwell forgot herself for just a moment and rose to look over the flowers. But Carrie had her peephole; she didn’t have to rise. She watched Grant to see if he’d noticed Eleanor. Could they possibly be meeting here?
No. Neither of them gave any sign of recognition, and probably only Carrie noticed that as Eleanor passed where he sat, she let the lavender scarf she carried in her hand trail across the width of his broad shoulders.
And having noticed, she turned beet-red.
“Why, that little hussy,” Mrs. Maxwell was saying. “She thinks she’s got it made now, marrying the admiral. But we’ll just see who will receive her.”
“Everyone will, Mother,” Jerry said dryly. “Money and power are all that matter. No one cares about those old stories any longer. Now, if you could dig up something new on her . . .”
His eyes glittered speculatively, but at the same time his mother noticed Carrie’s flushed face.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Mrs. Maxwell cooed. “Too many chilis in your crab enchilada?”
“No.” She took a quick drink of water. “I’m fine, thank you. I had something caught in my throat, that’s all.”
Mrs. Maxwell hardly heard. She was settling in for the big discussion she must have planned from the first when she’d asked them to join her there.
“Now, dear, let’s get down to brass tacks. It’s time we began to plan.”
“Plan?” she echoed.
“Yes. For your wedding, of course.”
“Mrs. . . . Mrs. Maxwell, we haven’t ... I mean, Jerry did ask me to marry him, but I haven’t—“
She waved away Carrie’s objections. “Take your time if you must, but we all know what your answer will be. Unless insanity runs in your family, of course.” She chuckled. “In which case we’ll be just as well without you.” Her laughter shook the table.
Carrie’s grin was weak. “But really, Mrs. Maxwell, I’m not at all sure I want to get married yet.”
Jerry smiled indulgently at his mother. “You can’t stop Mom when she gets on her steamroller,” he said. “She flattens everything in her path. You might as well just stand back and let her roll.”
Mrs. Maxwell looked serious again. “We need to start considering dates. We’ll need to reserve the church, you know, not to mention the caterers. The guest list itself will take weeks to draw up.”
Carrie stared at the woman. “I was under the impression that the bride’s family usually gives the wedding.”
“Oh, darling.” Mrs. Maxwell’s laughter tinkled in the air. “Your family couldn’t possibly provide the sort of wedding we’re going to require.”
“That’s probably true,” Carrie said thoughtfully. “Maybe Jerry ought to look for a wealthier woman to marry so you can have that taken care of.”
Mrs. Maxwell treated that as a joke and went sailing on. “Darling, just you wait. This wedding must be a gala affair. After all, my son doesn’t get married every day.”
“Probably not,” Carrie murmured, glancing at Jerry. He was silently finishing his filet of sole. Obviously he was used to sitting back and allowing his mother to ramble on.
“Now, another thing,” she said, shaking a finger at Carrie, “is what Jerry was talking about before. That job of yours. The office you’ve opened.”
Carrie’s eyes widened in surprise. “What about it?”
“Jerry was quite right. You ought to quit.”
“What?”
“You’re going to need all your time to prepare for this wedding. Believe me, it’s a full-time occupation in itself. It’s going to take months of planning, We’ll be working side by side for simply days on end.”
Carrie stared at her, mouth agape. The prospect was too horrifying to imagine.
“Now get rid of that office, dear. It’s nothing but a nuisance. You won’t need the job, after all, once you’ve married Jerry, and you can forget all of this silliness.”
She’d found Jerry’s mother amusing up to a point, but that point passed when she started taking over Carrie’s life for her. Who did the woman think she was, anyway? Carrie’s eyes flashed, but she held her temper in check.
“I don’t think of it as silliness,” she said evenly. “I enjoy my work.”
“You enjoy it?” She made a face. “I can’t really believe that, my dear. Besides, you’ll need your time for tennis and the country club and the Junior League—“
“I won’t give up my work,” Carrie said stiffly. “Even if I marry. And that hasn’t been decided yet. I’m a physical therapist. That’s what I want to do with my life. That’s my career.”
Mrs. Maxwell’s smile was patronizing. Carrie could just hear her telling herself to be careful of hurting the poor girl’s feelings. “But, darling,” she said soothingly, “you’ve given it a whole two weeks now and—“
“And people aren’t exactly breaking down your door to get your help,” Jerry broke in. He pushed away his plate and put his napkin up on the table, as though that settled the matter.
Carrie stared at him, shocked. “You said, yourself, that it would take time,” she protested.
“Sure, that was what I said when I was trying to make you feel good. But I don’t see much point in going on with a farce.” He leaned forward-looking earnest. To him this was, after all, for her own good.
“Let’s face it, Carrie. You don’t have one client. Not one. So why waste time? Call it quits before you’ve invested any more time and money into a losing venture.”
“But I have prospects. I’ve sent out letters to all the senior centers in town, offering my services at a reduced rate as a…”
“Oh come on, Carrie.” He was almost laughing in her face. “You don’t want to work with a bunch of old people, do you?”
Carrie felt backed into a corner, but she was by no means ready to retreat. She was infuriated. If this was what it would be like to be married to Jerry—living life as Mrs. Maxwell arranged it--they could count her out.
It frustrated her that she had no concrete defense. How could she win her point by just insisting that someday she would have all the clients she needed? What she needed was something she could throw in their faces now, something she could show them. ...
She looked up, and suddenly Grant was coming up to their table. She had no idea why. But it didn’t matter. He was her “something.”
She gave him a huge smile of welcome and said, quite clearly, “Ah, but the two of you are wrong. I do have a client.” She gestured grandly as he stopped before them. “You both know Grant Carrington, don’t you? He’s asked me to develop a plan of therapy for him, and I’ll be starting to work with him on Monday.”
Both faces stared at her, then looked up at Grant —Jerry’s filled with consternation, Mrs. Maxwell’s with bewilderment.
Grant’s cool gaze took in exactly what was going on. He looked at Carrie and immediately saw the anger in her eyes. They’d been baiting her and she was furious. A deep feeling of pure satisfaction filled him. Their loss just might be his gain after all.
Carrie was holding her breath. Did he get it? Would he play along? Did she really deserve it if he did, after the way she’d held him off all this time?
“Is that what you’re telling these people?” he asked her quietly, his eyes enigmatic. “That’s not quite the way I remember it.”
Silently, Carrie groaned, her fingers clutching her butter knife. He caught the gesture and smiled in a way that told her he was very much aware of how much she would like to plant it in his broad chest. Her voice was high but determined.
“I thought . . . Mr. Carrington, I thought we’d agreed—“
&n
bsp; “To start today,” he intercepted swiftly. “That was how I understood it.” His gaze lingered on her face, enjoying her surge of relief. “But Monday will do just as well.” He looked at the others. “She promised to turn me into a new man. I’m looking forward to it.”
Carrie flushed, feeling faint from the rush of one emotion after another. It was a sensation this man seemed only too talented in.
“Exactly,” she said just a little shakily. “He’s promised to let me try out all the new theories on him. Together we may become famous.”
He raised an eyebrow, and a slight smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “As long as we’re successful,” he commented. “Let’s not publicize the failures.”
“There won’t be any,” she promised. A tremor of unease dimmed her triumph. She could plunge into those blue eyes and never come back up for air. What on earth was she getting herself into?
As though she couldn’t stand any more of this, Mrs. Maxwell broke in. “But really, Mr. Carrington, how nice of you to take pity on our poor Carrie and let her try out her . . . skills, as it were. Still, I’m sure you’re under the care of someone really competent, aren’t you?”
“Yes I am,” Grant said. “And her name is Carrie Harlow.” His smile, as he looked at Mrs. Maxwell, was angelic. “I just stopped by to say hello and to thank you for inviting me to your party the other day.”
Mrs. Maxwell’s face changed completely, and the social animal took over once again. “Oh, I was so glad you could come. You know, everyone told me you never went to parties, but I took a chance, anyway. I was so pleased when you accepted.” She held out her hand to him.
He took it, bowing slightly. “It was my pleasure entirely. A thoroughly rewarding day.” He glanced down at Carrie again, but she couldn’t read his gaze. “It was nice seeing you. Enjoy your lunch.”
They were all silent as he left, walking slowly through the restaurant. He stopped to talk to someone else, and Jerry let out a sigh of annoyance.
“I don’t like you working with him,” he said tensely. “It isn’t ... seemly. I mean, doctors have nurses standing by when they examine patients, don’t they? Who’s going to protect you?”
“Protect me?” Carrie glared at him. “Protect me from what? Do you think Grant Carrington is going to compromise my honor?”
Jerry’s frown deepened. “He’d better not. But I hate to think of you all alone with him in that little office.”
Carrie bit her lip, wondering what Jerry would think if he realized that the sessions would be taking place at Grant’s home, not her office.
“I’m a professional, Jerry,” she said calmly. “You might as well get used to it, because this is what I do.”
She could see that they both were revving up to go on with their arguments, but she’d had enough. She began to gather her things, preparing to leave.
“Mr. Carrington’s case will be complicated,” she said, not meeting either of their gazes. “So you can see that I’ll be much too busy to think about things like weddings for a long, long time.”
Her smile was bright and cheery, but there was a “Don’t Tread on Me” chip on her shoulder now, and they both seemed to sense it. “Now, I really must get back to the office to do some research.”
They didn’t say another word. Neither Jerry nor his mother looked particularly happy, but they both agreed that it was time to leave.
As they rose to go, Carrie realized that Grant had stopped by Eleanor Ashland’s table and was leaning down close to her ear. The table was right in their path; they couldn’t avoid it without looking strange.
Mrs. Maxwell stopped to say hello. Jerry grinned and made a joke. But Carrie didn’t say a word. She was all too aware of Grant’s intense examination as she stood beside him.
The Maxwells started toward the door, and Carrie turned to follow, but Grant was in her way.
“I’m expecting you first thing Monday morning,” he said softly, catching her by the arm as she tried to pass. “You owe me one now, and if you don’t show up, I’ll come and get you.”
Carrie glanced at Eleanor Ashland. The woman’s violet eyes were shooting daggers. She shook Grant off without a word and followed the Maxwells to the door. But when she glanced back, he was still watching her.
CHAPTER FOUR:
An Uneasy Truce
The road out to the old mansion where Grant was living had a sad, lonely air about it. Grass grew down the middle, a sure sign that not many cars came this way anymore. The asphalt was cracked and full of potholes. The few houses that remained along the way had been abandoned because this was an area of landslides. Lavish buildings had been put up during a land boom, and a few years later those same buildings began to slide toward the sea.
It wasn’t until then that someone had noticed that all the land in those hills had been gradually sliding for years. Abandoned houses now sat akilter, some split in half, others losing more and more of their materials to the elements, all totally unlivable. Only the one mansion remained, high on a bedrock monolith overlooking the ocean.
Carrie drove her compact car through the cast-iron gates and parked it in front of the house. Then she sat very still, wondering how she’d gotten herself into this, wondering how in the world she was going to get herself out. She’d acted very confident in front of Jerry, but to tell the truth, she was pretty nervous about of being alone with Grant.
“We’ll make it quick,” she promised herself. “We’ll be cool and professional. If he tries anything, we raise an eyebrow in a superior way and drawl out our shocked surprise—and if that doesn’t put him in his place, we make a run for it.”
For a moment she actually considered leaving her keys in the ignition to make for a faster getaway— just in case she needed it.
“Cool and professional,” she told herself again, turning the phrase into a kind of mantra. “Cool and professional.” And then she reached for the handle on the car door.
Grant stood in an upstairs bedroom window, looking down at Carrie’s car. He’d pulled on long blue sweat pants and was in the process of shrugging into a sleeveless T-shirt, but his attention was on the little car. He’d noted Carrie’s reluctance in getting out of it, and he didn’t think she was just going over papers in preparation for their meeting.
“So what the hell have you done?” he asked himself scathingly. “Scared her to death?”
He swung around and looked at himself in the mirror. A tall, strongly built man looked back at him, a man with bitter lines around his mouth, bitter lines around his eyes. Angry relic that he was, who wouldn’t be frightened? Almost thirty years old and he looked over forty, at least in the face.
“Used up and resenting it,” he muttered, balling his hands into fists. And no prize, in any case. Turning, he went to meet his therapist.
Carrie made it to the front door at about the same time he reached the bottom of the wide staircase that swept down into the entryway. He opened the door for her.
“Hi,” she said, smiling a bit tremulously. He filled her gaze like a Western sky, and she glanced around the room to avoid looking straight at him. “Don’t you have any—“
“Servants?” he finished for her. “Not the kind this place deserves.” He stood back to allow her to enter and then watched her as she stepped gingerly into the house.
If anything, she looked fresher, and newer in the bright yellow jumpsuit, her tawny hair cascading around her shoulders. He closed the door behind her, and Carrie jumped at the loud click, as though she’d heard the sound of her own doom.
“I’ve got a combination cook/housekeeper who comes for three hours every day,” he went on as he led her through the house. “A gardener who comes twice a week. And a pool boy who comes once a week.” He opened a door into a spacious room that had probably once been a sort of greenhouse parlor but was bare of plants now. “But that’s it. No butler. No maids. No chauffeur.”
They went out through the French doors and across the patio, then around the pool
and finally into the custom-built gymnasium. Carrie looked around with obvious admiration. The grounds of the place were a little run-down, but inside the gym, everything was top quality.
“Do you have those X rays I asked you about?” she said, dropping her purse and bag of equipment near a small desk against the wall.
He went to a file cabinet beside the desk and pulled out a folder.
She took them carefully and held each up to the light in turn, examining them thoroughly. At first glance the damage to his right leg stunned her. The bones must have- been splintered and crushed, the knee almost completely destroyed. Steel pins were all that held him together now. The sight took her breath away, and she had to fight for a moment to regain her composure. Finally she tucked the X rays away again and shook her head, gazing at him, hoping that she didn’t look as pale as she felt.
“You really did a job on that knee,” she said, her voice shaky. “Do they have you scheduled for any more reconstructive surgery?”
He’d been watching her reaction, but his face betrayed no emotions whatsoever.
“No. According to all the experts, they’ve gone as far as they could. One doctor recommended a wheelchair. Another said I’d never be able to walk without crutches.” He shrugged. “As I’m already into the realm of places they said I couldn’t go, I figure I’m on my own.”
He said the words with quiet pride, and she felt a sudden rush of sympathy for what he must have gone through, what he was still going through.
“What exactly happened to your leg?” she asked, leaning back against the desk for support.
He stood easily before her, hands on his hips. “Don’t you read the papers?”
There was an edge to the question, but she refused to be intimidated. “Not the race-car news,” she retorted. “You’ll have to fill me in.”
His face hardened, and she almost regretted having asked. It seemed that he didn’t like remembering.
“I was the middle car in a three-car pileup,” he said curtly. “Broke both legs, two ribs, punctured one lung, and burned a large part of my back. The right leg was crushed by another car’s half-ton engine. I’m lucky to have any of it left at all.”