Snowbound Weekend & Gambler's Love

by Amii Lorin

  Her Ben! Vichy blinked angrily against the resurgence of moisture in her eyes. Stop it At once. Her Ben indeed! Her Ben, and that young woman's Ben, and probably a half-dozen other women's Ben as well. Damn all gamblers!

  Suddenly she exploded into action. Flinging back the covers, she jumped out of the bed. She had to move. She had to get a shower and get dressed. She had to go home. She had to begin the process of eradicating him from her mind.

  The fuel tank in her car was still half full when Vichy turned into the rutted driveway to her parents' farm. The power generator in her body hovered at empty. She had eaten nothing since lunchtime the day before. She was operating on nerves and guts, and it showed.

  How badly it showed became evident to Vichy by her family's reaction to her appearance. Her mother fussed. Her father grumbled. Her sister, all mouth and no tact, was blunt.

  "You look like you've been hit by a sixteen-wheeler. What the heck kind of week did you have in Atlantic City?"

  "Hectic," Vichy understated dully. Had it really only been a week since she'd rushed out of this house, eager to fly back into her lover's arms? Her lover. Vichy shivered.

  The metaphorical needle in her body bounced on E. The elasticity of her nerves had been drawn to full tautness, courage conceded the battle, and Vichy knew that if she did not lie down very soon, she would fall down.

  "I've had very little sleep the last few days," she offered by way of an explanation. "If you don't mind, I'll skip supper and go right to bed. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."

  Tomorrow. The word haunted Vichy in the days that followed. So many tomorrows, and every one of them empty, meaningless. And the hardest thing for her to bear was the realization that throughout every morning, noon, and night of every one of those tomorrows she would continue to love Bennett Larkin. She wanted to hate him. She tried desperately to hate him. With ruthless determination, she recreated the setting in which she had last seen him. She remembered everything in minute detail, down to the shimmering gleam in Ben's eyes, and the tiny mole on the ash-blonde's temple. It hurt to review the scene, but it changed nothing. She loved him.

  Thankfully, her parents accepted her hastily formed explanation of a week filled with work as she knocked herself out entertaining wildly celebrating crowds of people. But Vichy was not too sure of Bette. Bette was definitely casting her some very pained glances.

  Two weeks after her flight from Atlantic City Bette's glances were the least of Vichy's problems.

  It was on this Saturday morning in mid-January that the seed of doubt Vichy had buried in the farthest reaches of her consciousness reached full germination and poked its questioning sprout into the forefront of her mind.

  Telling herself her suspicions were ridiculous, she nonetheless took out her personal calendar and flipped through the pages until she came to the last one with a date circled in red. One careful count forward from that circled date was all the confirmation she required.

  She was pregnant!

  Feeling like she had received a stunning blow to her solar plexus, Vichy sank limply onto the edge of her bed. Fool, fool, fool, she berated herself mercilessly. But she had been told she would probably never be able to have a child and, even though that had been almost six years ago, she had had no reason to suspect that conditions had changed.

  Had Ben assumed she was on the pill? He must have, Vichy decided wearily. For not once had he raised the subject.

  What am I going to do? she cried silently. You're going to have a baby, the answer came from within. Ben's baby.

  Ben's baby.

  A small flicker of anticipation tickled her stomach. She had very little money, and though she had had several job interviews this last week, she had no definite prospects of employment. Yet, suddenly, she didn't care. She was going to have Ben's baby!

  Sunday the Hartman family came to visit. John and Katie had changed very little since the last time Vichy had seen them. Mark had not changed at all; he was gentle, he was kind, he was considerate—he was dull as old dishwater.

  Distracted by thoughts of her condition, and how to go about handling it, Vichy was totally unaware of the soulful glances Mark shyly cast at her.

  Bette, however, had witnessed every one of Mark's longing looks. After the Hartmans' departure, she launched a teasing attack on Vichy.

  "If worse comes to worst," she grinned impishly, "you can always marry old Mark."

  "What do you mean if worse comes to worst?" Startled, Vichy stared at Bette. Had her sister, somehow, guessed her condition?

  "I mean, if you have no luck finding a job," Bette laughed. "Poor old Mark is positively besotted with you."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Vichy retorted, weak with relief.

  "I'm not!" Bette protested. "He's always been crazy about you and, unbelievably, he has not changed a bit in all these years. When we visited them the day after Christmas, he bent my ear all day with questions about you."

  "I like Mark, I really do," Vichy offered seriously. "But..."

  "Yeah." Bette filled in where Vichy trailed off. "I know what you mean."

  Early Monday morning Vichy drove to a clinic in Lancaster to have a pregnancy test to satisfy any lingering doubt. The results were positive. Strangely, it was not until after Vichy was faced with the reality of her condition that she experienced her first bout of morning sickness.

  Saturday morning she was in the bathroom, hanging over the bowl, when Bette came tearing into the room without knocking.

  "Vichy, do you—" She broke off what she was going to ask to exclaim, "Hey, are you sick?"

  Waving with a backward swing of her hand, Vichy, appalled at being caught, gasped, "Bette, please, go away. It's just a stomach upset." She barely got the last word out when a racking heave shuddered through her body.

  "That's more than a stomach upset," Bette declared worriedly. "You have probably got some kind of virus. I'm going to tell Mom to call the doctor."

  "No!" Vichy ordered sharply. "Don't bother Mom, I don't need a doctor." But again her body betrayed her with its violent roiling.

  "We'll let Mom decide," Bette said, turning to the door.

  "Bette, wait, please!"

  "But you're sick, I—"

  "I'm pregnant." Defeat coated Vichy's whispery voice.

  "You're—" Bette cried in disbelief. "Does Mom know?"

  The spasms over, Vichy shook her head as she straightened. "No. I just got confirmation myself a few days ago." Vichy sighed wearily. "Look, wait for me in my bedroom while I wash my face and brush my teeth. We'll talk then."

  Bette was waiting, a frown creasing her smooth young brow. "This is incredible," she said softly when Vichy had closed the door. "How did this happen?" With a wave of her hand and a grimace she canceled the question. "Well, I know how it happened. What I mean is, when? Who? Were you seeing some man in California? Is that why you came home?"

  "No, no," Vichy answered, sinking onto the bed. "It happened when I played Atlantic City in November. I—I met this man…"

  "You hopped into bed with a stranger!"

  Vichy winced at her sister's shocked expression.

  "Please, Bette, keep your voice down," she urged. "And, no, I didn't just hop into bed with a stranger." Yet, wasn't that exactly what she had done? she accused herself. The thought hurt, and she rushed on, "He—I—oh, Bette, what difference does it make?"

  "Well, what does he say about it?" Bette asked bluntly.

  "He doesn't know," Vichy murmured. "And he's not going to know," she added much more firmly.

  "Not going to know?" Bette repeated in confusion. "But, why? He's the father. He has every right, not to mention responsibility, to know."

  A tormenting vision, never far from the front of her consciousness, of a lovely young woman kissing Ben's smiling lips swam before Vichy's eyes.

  "He has no rights," she said harshly. "And I'll take the responsibility."

  "You're not thinking of doing this alone?" Bette demanded in a tone of shock.r />
  "Why not?" Vichy countered. "A lot of women are today. It's the 'in' thing." If her own voice lacked conviction, Bette's did not.

  "Not around here, it isn't. Oh, it happens, sure, but it is not the in thing. And certainly not in this family," she underlined darkly.

  There was the crux of Vichy's concern. In a sense, she had been the pioneer of the family. She had been the first ever to enter the field of entertainment. The first ever to divorce a mate. Now Bette had just confirmed her own fears. Her latest first was going to go over like a lead balloon. Biting her lip, she eyed her sister wearily.

  "I'm going to do it, Bette," she sighed. "They'll just have to get used to it. I know they'll all be shocked, but…" Her voice whispered away.

  "I don't think shocked quite covers it," Bette warned.

  "I can imagine Josh's reaction, and Mattie!" Bette shuddered. "I used to envy you," she confessed. "I don't anymore." She lifted her shoulders helplessly. "When are you going to tell the folks?"

  "Soon."

  Nodding, Bette walked to the door. "I—I wish there was something I could do," she said softly, not looking back.

  "There isn't," Vichy swallowed against the lump in her throat. "But, thanks, anyway."

  After that, Vichy knew she would have to talk to her parents very soon or take the risk of betraying herself to her mother in the same way she had to Bette. Yet, the day slipped by, and still she hesitated.

  While her parents were in church on Sunday, Vichy, cooking the midday meal, decided she'd speak to them as soon as dinner was over.

  Growing more tense by the minute, Vichy greeted the appearance of Mark Hartman at the door, like a stay-of-execution, while she and Bette were finishing up the dishes.

  After exchanging small talk with her parents, Mark, ever the same, challenged Vichy to a game of checkers, exactly as he had when they had both been teenagers. Sighing in a combination of amusement and frustration, Vichy accepted his shyly worded challenge, exactly as she always had.

  They were into their fourth game when the doorbell rang. As she was losing for the fourth time, Vichy, glad for any distraction, sprang to her feet.

  "I'll get it," she cried, forestalling her father, who had begun folding the paper he was reading.

  Vichy walked out of the room into the vestibule and opened the door. She froze, her hand gripping the knob.

  "Hello, Vichy."

  Ben looked leaner than ever, and meaner then a midwinter blizzard out of the northwest.

  "If you slam that door, I'll kick it in," he warned softly, correctly reading her intentions.

  Vichy moistened her lips. "What do you want?" she croaked.

  A cynical smile twisted his lips and Vichy shivered. He looked tired and exasperated and mad enough to chew nails—very large ones.

  "I want an explanation," Ben gritted out. "In fact, I want several."

  "I can't t-talk now," Vichy, actually frightened, stuttered. "We—we have a g-guest, and—"

  "Vichy, invite whoever it is in, and close the door," her father called impatiently. "I'm not paying to heat the front porch."

  Rebellion flared. She couldn't bear to be in the same room with him. It hurt her just to look at him. How could she possibly go through the motions of introducing him to her family as a casual acquaintance? She was pregnant with his child, for heaven's sake! She just could not. Her arm moved to close the door on his face.

  "You heard the man." A small, unpleasant smile tugging at the straight line that slashed his face, Ben stepped forward, forcing her to back up to avoid physical contact.

  "Do you know what you're doing?" she muttered as he passed her.

  "Yes," Ben hissed. "Do you?" There was no time to try even to formulate an answer, for Bette came clattering down the stairs, a questioning grin on her face.

  "Hi, I'm Bette…" She paused expectantly, her grin widening.

  In an instant, Ben's entire mien changed. Returning her grin, he offered his hand. "Hi, Ben Larkin."

  "Well, Ben Larkin, why don't you take your coat off and come inside?" Bette invited.

  Up until that moment Vichy hadn't even noticed that he was wearing a coat. But, of course he was wearing a coat, she chided herself as she held out her icy cold hand for the garment. It's January.

  Clamping down firmly on a rising feeling of hysteria, Vichy led the way into the living room and managed to get through the ensuing introductions coherently.

  With every one of her senses alive to the smallest nuance about him, Vichy felt rather then saw him tense when she introduced Mark. Yet, nothing about his demeanor betrayed that tension.

  He was all charm as he accepted her mother's offer of a cup of hot coffee, and smiled with devastating effect when Bette eagerly requested the honor of performing the small task of bringing it to him.

  Before he was in the room five minutes he had not only Bette but her parents as well hanging on his every word.

  As to the contents of his words, Vichy hadn't a clue, until she heard, and registered, the word California. Gathering her emotion-rattled thoughts, she forced herself to attention.

  "The plane landed in Philly a few hours ago," Ben was saying. "I thought since I was this close, I'd drop in and see Vich."

  His use of her shortened nickname was a dead giveaway. He might appear easy and relaxed to every other person in the room, but Vichy knew better. The only times Ben had ever called her Vich was when he was annoyed or angry with her. Vichy had the sinking sensation that he was very, very angry with her. Once again she dragged her attention to what he was saying.

  "No, we didn't meet in California," Ben answered a question posed by her mother. "Actually, I met Vich while she was performing in Atlantic City Thanksgiving week."

  Attuned only to Ben, Vichy completely missed Bette's suddenly electrified appearance.

  What was her father asking now? Something about whether Ben had much more driving to do today.

  "The weather service is predicting snow for early this evening, you know," Luke cautioned.

  "Yes, sir, I did know," Ben replied respectfully. "I'm not going to be driving anymore today." He smiled. "At least, no more than to get to the room I booked for the night." He mentioned a motel on the highway less than ten miles from Vichy's parents' farmhouse.

  Vichy's spirits hit rock bottom. She had been harboring a hope that he'd be starting for home when he departed. Now that hope was shattered, and she knew there was no way she could avoid the coming confrontation between them.

  Mark, sitting across from her on the other side of the table that still held their unfinished checkers game, stirred restlessly, catching her eye. Unbelievably, until he moved, Vichy had forgotten he was there.

  "I guess I'd better be going," he said in his halting, shy way in answer to her questioning glance. "I hate driving in the snow."

  Ignoring the sardonic expression that passed fleetingly over Ben's face, Vichy rose to see Mark to the door.

  As he put on his jacket in the comparative privacy of the vestibule, Mark proved that though he was dull, he was in no way dense.

  "He's important to you, isn't he?" Mark asked softly, giving evidence that while her family had centered all their attention on Ben, he had been observing her.

  Loath to lie to him, Vichy nodded reluctantly.

  "I thought so," Mark stared at her, his dying hope reflected in his eyes. "Is there anything I can do?"

  Strangely, dull old Mark was apparently the only one who had sensed trouble between Vichy and Ben. Grateful for his offer, Vichy nonetheless shook her head.

  "You're a good friend, Mark," she murmured. "But…" Again she shook her head.

  "Well," Mark fiddled with the doorknob. "If you need a friend anytime, call me."

  Even though she knew she never would, Vichy promised, "I will. Thank you, Mark."

  When she stepped through the archway into the living room, she found Ben on his feet.

  "No, thanks anyway. I had a late lunch," he was saying to her mother, who h
ad, apparently, invited him to supper. "I have to be going too." Striding across the room, he put a staying hand on Vichy's arm as she turned to show him out. "I can find the door by myself," he clipped. "I'll call you," he added in a tone that warned: You'd better answer.

  Vichy fielded her parents' questions about Ben through supper. At least she didn't have to parry Bette's blunt queries, as her sister had gone to visit a girl friend. She was beginning to grow desperate for innocuous answers when the phone rang.

  Tossing down her dishtowel, she volunteered, "I'll get it," as she headed for the vestibule and the small table on which the phone rested.

  "Get over here," Ben ordered an instant after she'd said hello. "And I mean now."

  Why had she assumed he'd wait until tomorrow to call? she wondered wildly. Did he ever do anything she assumed he would? He didn't even give her time to refuse. Harshly repeating, "Now, Vich," he slammed down his receiver after growling a room number.

  I won't go, Vichy thought defiantly. He can't order me around like a recalcitrant child. I will not go. What can he do about it, anyway? Come back here and raise all kinds of hell, the answer came loud and clear to her mind. Releasing the death grip she still had on the receiver, Vichy walked to the vestibule closet for her coat.

  Vichy's headlights cut through the darkness of the cloud-shrouded early evening, and in her preoccupation, Vichy was unaware of passing her father's car, Bette behind the wheel, moving in the opposite direction.

  There were only four cars parked in the motel lot. Her palms damp inside her driving gloves, Vichy maneuvered the Pinto into the lined slot beside Ben's familiar Grand Prix. He must have been watching for her, for the door of his room was pulled open as she hesitantly lifted her hand to knock on it.

  Her feet responding to her shaky order to move, Vichy walked into the brightly lit room.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Are you pregnant?"

  The harshly worded question hit her with all the force of a hurtled missile. The slam of the door was an indication of the fury riding the man who had flung the verbal stone.