Impulse

by Lass Small

  She had been a fool.

  She took Highway 275 to 4 and drove east to Winter Haven. The highway was a good one, and she drove carefully, but her thoughts roiled along.

  She understood she wasn’t cut out for affairs. She’d made the biggest mistake of her life, and she would never see Chas again. She could never match him with another man. And she was extraordinarily unhappy.

  She wanted to crawl into a hole and pull the ground in after her so she could be alone and endure as she grieved for the loss of him.

  She thought: I am different. I’m a woman. I don’t want to be a man.

  Nine

  Amy had already driven into the home driveway, and gotten out of her car. She realized her parents were there at the poolside table with other people. With an irritating shock, Amy saw the Peckerels were still visiting.

  She was trapped. Flight was out of the question. There was no cordial way she could leave at that point.

  Her smiling mother was already on her feet, and her father was coming toward her with a great, welcoming grin.

  Amy stretched her lips when what she wanted to do was fling herself against her father’s wide chest and just bawl. It wasn’t the Peckerels’ fault they didn’t know they weren’t supposed to be there right then.

  Bill Allen tousled his daughter’s hair in welcome and gave her a buffeting hug. Then with his heavy arm around her weakened, drooping shoulders, he turned her toward her approaching mother.

  With great smothered hilarity, her mother exclaimed, “How nice you could get here in time to see the Peckerels!”

  Amy managed a cold glance before she stretched her mouth into some semblance of a smile and said, “Yes.” With that quite sketchy acknowledgment to her maternal parent, she went on to the group and held out her hand as she said, “Mitzie! I did get here in time. How are you? Obviously perfect.”

  Mitzie rose and even leaned a cheek almost close enough for a belatedly offered air-kiss and she replied, “Uh...”

  Amy did wait encouragingly, but Mitzie had forgotten what it was she was going to say. Amy smiled and shook hands with Peck, who jerked her heartily to him and gave her a juicy smack on her cheek.

  It was then Amy saw who else was there. A very amused man. He’d risen, and her eyes followed him up. He was perfect.

  His name was Miles Clifford. He was big, he was easy, he was perfect. His eyes danced and his mouth’s smile kept— almost— slipping out of control. He liked her. This was the man her mother had found for her to marry. He was too late. She looked at him gloomily.

  Her mother touched Amy’s arm and said to the others, “We’ll be back in just a minute. I know Amy would like to freshen up.”

  While her father retrieved the designated suitcase, her mother led her daughter’s faltering steps to the house, inside and up the stairs.

  After her father had heartily deposited the case in Amy’s room and departed, her mother asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Amy said simply, “My life’s over.” She flung out both arms and flopped back onto the bed to lie flat, staring at the ceiling.

  “A man,” Cynthia Allen guessed.

  Amy managed a single nod.

  “Married?”

  One shake.

  “Well, he would have to be interested in our daughter, the man killer, so what’s the problem?”

  “I lied to him.”

  “Well, a fib now and again— ”

  Without moving her head, Amy moved her eyes over to her mother in a quelling way. “When he finds out the truth, he’ll never speak to me again.”

  “Tell me.”

  It was like doing a lousy job of pulling a champagne cork, and the entire story was out of Amy in a fizzing of words, tears and lamentations.

  Cynthia only interrupted once, and that was to exclaim, “Trilby? Trilby Winsome?”

  Amy’s irritated, “Yes!” was patched into the edge of her rush of words. Amy didn’t tell everything. She censored the fact that she’d spent almost thirty-six hours, all told, intimately, with Chas.

  Even though she was only a pretend “cousin,” she found she couldn’t be harsh about Sally or Connie, so she didn’t tell that part or mention the green dress. Without all that, it actually shouldn’t have taken very long to tell her story of deception.

  It took a while.

  She had to make her mother understand how marvelous Chas was, and she’d botched her single chance for happiness through her carelessness. He was an honest man who couldn’t tolerate cheaters or liars, and she was both.

  Her whole lying career had been condensed into those two and a half days, and she’d never tell another lie in all the rest of her life. Her bleak, loveless life was finished. She was going to go and nurse the lepers.

  “Yes.” Cynthia had to agree, and she even managed a sympathetic sounding sigh. “But first we have to go down and be civil to the Peckerels...and to Miles. He’s such a dear. Come along. Have you something in this case, or should your father bring up the rest of it?”

  “This one,” Amy said dispiritedly, as she dragged herself off the bed, picked the case up from the floor, and flopped it onto the bed. She pressed the locks and opened it. Then she rooted around for shoes and...pulled out a handful of...business cards? She looked at them with a frown. They belonged to Chas! She burst into tears.

  There must two hundred of his cards tucked into every corner of her case, between folds of her clothing, in her shoes, everywhere! When had he put them there? How dare he to think she would sneak away? How could he do this to her? She flung herself into her mother’s arms and sobbed. Cynthia hugged her close, and she smiled.

  * * *

  After a shower rinse, and cold compresses for her eyes, careful makeup and a sugared glass of lemonade, Amy joined the others outside. She was very quiet. Miles was attentive, but not too. Everyone’s conversation went right over Amy’s head. She sat in a vacuum.

  Cynthia took up the conversational slack, replying for Amy in such a way that Amy could nod or shake her head. Then Miles took it up. After giving his own opinion, he’d add enough information for her to comment, and his eyes would rest on her thoughtfully.

  Since Bill never bothered with details, he was oblivious to his daughter’s behavior. Peck had never advanced from his experiences in Vietnam, so something current wasn’t important; and Mitzie was concerned only with herself.

  Mitzie was a thrift shop copy of a courtesan. She didn’t move her face at all. To smile she opened her mouth a little. She was conscious of her every movement and did each one just so. Then she would check to see if the male was aware of her. She moved now for Miles’s appreciation.

  A true courtesan isn’t blatant. She only wants to please a man. She works with humor, or questions, or as a listener. She works with enticement, if that’s what he wants, and she has skill in bed. Mitzie couldn’t do those things. Mitzie didn’t flirt or tempt as much as she simply was there to be admired.

  Miles glanced at Mitzie enough to let her feel she was appreciated. Bill was unaware. Cynthia shared the knowledge of Mitzie with Miles, and they understood that Peck watched indulgently.

  Some men like their women to attract other men, just as long as that’s all that comes of it. It makes such men feel they have a prize. So they don’t mind a little— distant— flirting. Peck was like that.

  Catching Cynthia’s eye, Miles then tilted his head at Amy and raised questioning brows. Her mother shrugged minutely. Miles then set himself to draw Amy out of her shell. He was charming.

  Of course, Miles also had to stay aware of Mitzie. In their little group, Mitzie wasn’t part of the conversation, so her only entertainment was moving for Miles. If he ignored her, she would sink into boredom. So he gave her enough glances, but he concentrated his attention on Amy.

  Amy did reply. She roused herself and said words and even focused on Miles, now and then, with some bitterness.

  He really was perfect. He wasn’t at all like Chas. He was treating her like a whole
person, an equal. Not like Chas, who was domineering and dictatorial. Miles was far superior. She could tell just by looking at him.

  How could her guardian angel have allowed her to get into such a mess down at the Cougar gathering? Why hadn’t the warning bells sounded and... They had.

  Amy distinctly remembered hearing them and realizing they had sounded all along throughout her life and prevented just such a thing, as had happened, from ever happening before then. Why then? How disastrous.

  Mitzie stood up slowly, carefully straightened her skirt, slid it up just a little to allow some give for her shapely hips and sat again. As they should have, they all watched Mitzie do that.

  Miles got to hear how Peck saved Bill’s life and was duly impressed. Bill laughed. He enjoyed Peck’s gradual changing of history. Obviously they should all thank God— now— that Peck had been in Vietnam or it would have been another Korea, to hear Peck tell it.

  Bill rubbed his nose and coughed a little, but he never demurred.

  Miles was attentive— he’d heard war stories before.

  Peck looked indulgently complacent with self-worth. Cynthia smiled. Mitzie slowly crossed her knees with a studied tucking of her short skirt, and Amy was lost to her own thoughts.

  She was thinking that, by then, Chas would have had some succinct questions for Peck. He would have slid them in nicely and tightened the loop just enough to make Peck uncertain, but Chas wouldn’t have “killed” the story. He would have just made Peck give a more honest version. Yes. Chas wouldn’t allow out-and-out lies. What had she done?

  Right then, Chas was up in their room finding her note and the pearl... She was still wearing his pearl! My God! She was a fallen women! She’d kept his gift! Where had her wits been when she wrote that stupid note? That cool goodbye? No woman was worth the cost of that pearl! But she’d taken it along. She had!

  She had his card. She had more than enough of his cards. She would return the pearl by special courier. She must. She touched it there on her chest. How could she give it up? She could have it appraised, send him the money by special messenger— anonymously, of course— and keep the pearl as a memento. As a token of their...coming together. Ahh...

  “How about you, Amy,” Miles was saying to her. “Do you gorge yourself on orange juice down here?”

  She was being swept into another titillating Peckerel conversation. She nodded. And Mitzie volunteered, “I love orange juice.”

  They all smiled at her, and she modestly straightened her shoulder strap as she peeked at Miles.

  Peck added confidingly, “It makes my bowels run.”

  Cynthia hastily commented, “I’ve never seen the bougainvillea so vigorous as this year. I just found it’s a member of the Four o’clock family. Did you ever make chains from Four o’clocks?”

  Miles said, “I don’t believe I ever have.”

  Cynthia’s eyes twinkled at Miles. “Since they’re called Four o’clocks, because they are an evening flower, I was somewhat disappointed they would open earlier. My mother told me it was daylight savings that threw their timing off.”

  A stimulating day. The evening didn’t improve. They continued in their individual ways, Bill trying to discuss Central America and the political fields in the United States, Mitzie rearranging her clothes or position. Cynthia was working for a cohesive conversation with Miles’s help and then there was the lump called Amy.

  The wedding would have begun. Sally and Tad. What about Connie and Matt? All those lives Amy’s had touched, and she would never know what happened to them. Or Chas. What would happen to Chas?

  When she found herself in the kitchen helping to get the meal on the table, Amy listened as her mother was saying, “It would have been interesting to see how other children would have been. You’re fascinating. But do try to help with the table talk. Just for that time, then you can sink back into your black abyss for the rest of the evening. Then you will rest up for tomorrow. Miles is here for the weekend. You need to be courteous. I am a little embarrassed by your conduct.”

  Amy turned indignant eyes to her abnormal mother. “I would certainly hate to embarrass you!” Amy puffed. “All’s I have to cope with is the disastrous ruining of my entire life and you want me to make...table conversation?”

  “Please.” Cynthia responded rather coolly.

  “Good grief.”

  “A lady can handle anything,” Cynthia reminded her. “You are not to make our guests uncomfortable.”

  “What about me?”

  “Later.”

  They stared at each other. Amy was especially annoyed that her mother was right. One could not allow self-indulgence. One straightened one’s spine and coped. She would survive. Even this.

  Even never seeing Chas again in all the rest of her life, she would learn to cope, to endure, to contribute. That’s how people managed. And it was all part of the rules of living. Like behaving, telling the truth and coping. Although somewhat stiff, she said to her mother, “I beg your pardon.”

  “Ah. I do love you.”

  “I can’t handle mushy right now.”

  “Neither can I.”

  They worked in silence. Then Cynthia said, “How sad to sit at the table for dinner. Mitzie loses half her allure.”

  Laughter erupted from Amy, and she laughed too much. But mother and daughter quickly hugged, then parted, wiped their eyes, washed their hands, patted cool water on their faces, and served the meal.

  And Amy did cope. She was attentive, if a little pale, and she contributed. Miles’s eyes watched her. He was very aware and quite curious.

  Being half-concealed by the table didn’t hamper Mitzie. She could squirm in her chair, adjust her shoulder straps slowly and she could lick her lips.

  Peckerel expansively told Bill what Congress should do about Central Africa. And how the United Nations should handle it without fooling around.

  Amy knew Chas would then ask hard questions, and he’d wait— not helping— for Peck to figure it out. Chas would feel anyone was responsible for his views and should be able to explain them and justify them. On the other hand, Miles just listened politely and made no comment.

  Cynthia asked Miles, “Is there any way you could stay through this next week?” and they exchanged a long glance.

  He thoughtfully bit into his bottom lip and squinted his eyes at Amy’s mother before he replied, “I’ll check it out.”

  Cynthia understood and nodded.

  Amy, too, understood. Her mother meant to give her time to know how perfect Miles was. She knew it already. It didn’t make any difference.

  A week in Miles’s company wouldn’t prove anything. Nothing except that Amy had been an idiot to ever get involved with someone so hard-nosed as Chas Cougar. He was domineering, possessive, dictatorial and imperfect.

  Eventually the evening ended, the assorted people separated in the upper hall, and they went to their own rooms and closed doors. Amy was alone. For the first time since Thursday morning, Amy was alone. Alone.

  It was bad enough in a group and suffering; it was hell being alone with her anguish. She would never see Chas again.

  She was sitting like a lump on her bedside when there was a quiet tap on her door. Miles? Her career was begun. Did Miles know that? Was her look now that of a woman who sneaked around halls in the night and welcomed strange men into her bed? Was she marked with the look of a loose woman for the rest of her life?

  The tap came again, softer. She looked at the door. If she had really become a bedhopper, she would go to the door and smile up at him. She might not let him in— this first night— but she wouldn’t discourage him. And if she simply couldn’t, this soon after a man like Chas, she would be kinder in her refusal than she used to be. Much, much kinder.

  But she wasn’t a bedhopper. She wasn’t a pseudo man. She was a woman, and she didn’t want to end up like Connie, Sally, Kate or Charlotte. Or, as Sally had told Connie, meet a man whom she didn’t recognize even though she had spent a weekend
with him. Amy knew she would never again allow a casual affair. It was too stupid.

  Actually, as much as she grieved for Chas, she was fortunate she had had her affair with him. He could have been crude or embarrassing. Chas was none of those things. He was a gentleman. She wished... She wis—

  To her astonishment, the knob on her door turned and the door began to open. Miles was shockingly persistent! How could he come into her room the first night in her father’s house?

  And her mother came into the room.

  “Mother.” Amy was blank.

  Cynthia agreed. “Daughter.” And she looked at said daughter quizzically. “Are you all right?”

  “As I will ever be.” Amy was mournful.

  “I do appreciate you rallying tonight. Hop into bed and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

  “Mother,” Amy retorted from a more knowledgeable height. “There are things in this life that a good night’s sleep will not solve.”

  “Not too much.”

  “You were very fortunate to meet a man who was tolerant of you and allowed you to call the shots.”

  “He wasn’t at all tolerant. There were times he was bloody mad.” Cynthia lifted her brows and smiled.

  “You lived in another time.”

  “For God’s sake, Amy, don’t be so narrow-minded to tell me Times Are Different. That wail is in every generation from Adam and Eve. Now they could say it! You can’t. Morals and manners are constant. So is the keeping and flaunting of rules.”

  “Morals are relaxed now.”

  “My mother was too young for World War Two. But at that time it was war that was the Great Excuse. Don’t be so naive as to think anything is ever different.”

  “People accept living together.”

  “Some do. Even that isn’t unique.”

  “Mom, I have a dreadful headache. I really can’t debate this tonight.”

  “Ah, my dear. I would never have you sad.”