by Carol Devine
Thankfully, Amanda shooed the men toward the football game. “Meg, you look smashing, as always,” she said, following her mother’s lead to a cozy grouping of wing chairs in front of the fireplace. “As usual, I’m dying to know where you got that outfit.”
“Trade secret,” Meg said with a wink.
“Mother, would you believe that this woman gets to choose from the latest in designer fashions? Meg, tell her what you do for a living.”
“When the fashion houses start planning their collections, I work with textile manufacturers to produce the fabrics and colors the designers are looking for. It does allow me to see what will be paraded down the runways during the next season, but I’m afraid a sample from one of my sources is the closest I’ve come to a designer original.”
“Meg, you’re being far too modest,” Amanda scolded. “Mother, you may remember that when Bram and I married, Meg had just graduated from the Sorbonne. She’s an expert in historical textiles and works to preserve the traditional ways of making the fine fabrics of old. She is a true artiste.”
“As are you, Amanda, when it comes to politics,” Meg replied, smiling. “How go the wars in D.C.?”
They chatted amiably, giving Meg a chance to measure the ongoing tension between Bram and Jack. Unfortunately, their competitive natures weren’t likely to take an ultimatum from her with grace. And Jack would jump on any weakness on her part, just like he did the last time they were together. She wasn’t about to let that happen again. But she couldn’t ignore their animosity, either. By the end of the day, she’d be an absolute wreck.
When Jack headed for the refreshment table, Meg checked to ensure Katie was fully engrossed in playing with J.J. and excused herself, making a beeline toward Jack. Bram made a move to intercept her, rising from the couch, but Meg shook her head at him and he stayed where he was—though he watched her like the proverbial hawk.
Jack watched her, too, though he was much more casual about it, sipping from a bottle of mineral water as she approached. Judging by the early and obvious way Meg was singling him out, Jack guessed what she had on her mind. But he’d be damned before he let her zing him again. “Hello, Meg,” he said cordially. “I feel I should echo the sentiments of my mother and sister. Glad you and Katie could make it.”
“Thank you for the kind invitation,” she replied smoothly.
“You are welcome.”
“Am I really?”
The mischievous blue of her eyes took the bite off the query, but Jack knew feminine directness when he heard it. “Rest assured, Meg,” he answered, saluting her by raising his bottle of water, “you and Katie will always be welcome here.”
“After what happened the last time you and I were alone together, I wasn’t certain that would be the case.”
Censure delivered with such genteel decorum deserved wryness of the highest order. ‘Consider me properly chastised, then.”
“I find an apology is in order as well.”
“For my numerous transgressions, no doubt.”
She pounced on that with a delicately arched brow. “Actually...I was the one who transgressed.”
Her air of genuine contrition put him on instant alert. The last thing he wanted was a mea culpa from Meg. “An apology isn’t necessary, especially from you,” he said flatly. “I have enough to make up for as it is.”
“All the same, I do want to apologize. I didn’t mean to offend you when I made that remark implying you and Katie were complete strangers.”
“We are strangers,” he returned bluntly. “Thanks to you.”
That stopped her, if only for a moment. “Look, Jack,” she said softly, “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I made a mistake and I’m sorry. It was not in the least—”
“Save the apologies for our honeymoon, Meg. You might have something to bargain with then.”
Like his mother, who had the moral authority to carry off a show of great offense, Meg frosted him with one look. Turning her back, she walked away without another word. It wasn’t a retreat, he realized, but a choice. And it made him ashamed of his.
Meg took refuge on the couch beside Bram, but her growing sense of despair didn’t lift, even when they were called for Thanksgiving dinner. Jack played the role of the good host to the hilt, insisting she and Katie sit next to each other at the table. If he meant to make amends, it came far too late for Meg.
Declaring himself J.J.’s official dinner partner, Jack kept him busy throughout the interminable serving of the many courses. His patience should have warmed her; it shook her instead. Jack didn’t deserve to be Katie’s father. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the fact that he was.
Dessert finally came and the pies were brought out. Katie proudly pointed to their contribution. “It’s apple,” she proclaimed. “I made it all by myself.”
“Katie, will you cut me a piece, please?” Jack asked. “Apple pie’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too!” J.J. added.
Meg supervised the cutting. Katie managed the wedges all right but needed help to lever them out and transfer them safely onto china plates. Carrying each one with both hands, she served all those who requested apple pie. When the time came to eat her own piece, she carried her plate to J.J. and Jack.
“I want to eat with you guys,” she declared.
Jack lifted her onto his knee. The sight of the two of them together was too much. To Meg, the chatter and clatter of dinner faded away as his knack with children became more apparent.
Escaping from the table, Meg started crying long before she made it to the powder room. Fortunately, there was no one to see her tears. The entire household was involved with the Thanksgiving meal.
She locked the door behind her, but there was no place to hide, not from the truth. She couldn’t keep Katie from her own father. Not when he demonstrated how capable he was of fulfilling the role.
Meg splashed water on her face, but the collar of her tunic tightened like a noose around her neck. Marrying Jack was out of the question now. He baited her every chance he got, playing stupid games of one-upmanship. But he wasn’t going to give up Katie without a fight. She’d be caught in the middle of a major and very public custody battle, her life forever altered by the ugliness of scandal.
The scandal wouldn’t end there, either, Meg realized. Every member of the Tarkenton and Masterson families would be forced to take sides, especially Bram, Amanda and J.J.
Her blood. Her family. And what of Katie’s blood, Katie’s family?
A brisk knock sounded on the door. “Meg?”
There was no mistaking the emphatic sound of Jack’s voice. Meg flung open the door, ready to give him a piece of her mind, only to find him crouched on the floor next to a very distraught Katie. She launched herself into Meg’s arms.
“Mommy, Mommy, I thought you left! I thought you left!”
Meg dropped to her knees, hugging Katie close. “Oh, baby, Mommy would never leave you. Never, ever.” Even with Jack there as witness, Meg couldn’t contain her flood of tears. Katie sensed them, too, and pulled back in alarm.
“Mommy, why are you crying?”
“I’m just sad, honey. You know how people cry when they are sad.”
Katie’s lips quivered and she cried, too, and Meg held her tight, guilty and angry at the man who had caused this misery in the first place. Jack actually had the gall to push his handkerchief on her.
Meg rose with Katie in her arms, refusing to so much as acknowledge him. “Let’s go say goodbye to everybody, sweetie, shall we?”
“Meg, wait.” He dared put a hand on her arm. “I want to show you something. You, too, Katie,” he added. “A surprise.”
Meg didn’t have any trouble facing him squarely then. “No,” she replied, glaring. “We’re leaving.”
“What kind of surprise?” Katie wanted to know.
“Something beautiful,” he said, though his gaze remained on Meg. “Beautiful like you and your mommy.”
Meg clutched Kat
ie like the lifeline she was. “When I said no, I meant no. You are not doing this to me again, Jack,” she said through her teeth.
“But, Mommy, it’s beautiful.” Katie’s little hand patted Meg’s cheek. “Beautiful like us.”
“I’m asking, Meg,” Jack said. “For Katie’s sake.”
“Please, Mommy? It will make you happy again.”
Meg felt the depth of her daughter’s plea and locked gazes with Jack. “This changes nothing,” she said. “Do you understand?”
He nodded and gave her a wide berth, leading the way up the winding staircase to the second floor. Katie showed excitement, straining to follow. But then Katie had a child’s trusting heart. That Jack used that heart with impunity was the worst sin of all. Meg stared daggers at his back, knowing this was the last time she would ever see him, the last time he would get anywhere near Katie. Meg didn’t care if she had to live in the mountains of Tibet. Jack Tarkenton was never going to use her or her daughter again.
Five
Beauty was something Jack had never bothered to define in words. He simply knew it when he saw it, and pursued it wherever he went, be it in the places he lived, the art he collected, the women he kept company with.
But he had never sunk to this level. He had never tried to ruin what he most admired. It was the one thing that allowed him to meet his eyes in the mirror each morning. In spite of his many vices, he had never tried to destroy what he most wanted to have.
Vincent van Gogh was a tortured man. Jack related to the artist’s work for that reason. He also found van Gogh’s work to be extraordinarily beautiful and complex. Like the woman who stood before him, her ocean eyes lifted to take in what only she could see.
What talent was it that drank in the varied stitches of colors and textures, and understood the artist’s vision complete? He wished he knew. If he knew, Meg Masterson Betz would not torture him so. If he knew, he wouldn’t have gone after her in the first place.
The medieval tapestry hung in a specially built alcove off the master suite. Isolated by special lighting, the delicate embroidery wove an ancient portrait of a slender, golden-haired princess robed in purple, standing amid a garden of irises, bordered by an ancient coat of arms.
Whatever possessed him to bring her here, to his family’s inner sanctum? Did he hope to impress Meg with a masterpiece? Was this exercise in futility all a sop to his pride?
She stood rapt before the tapestry as he knew she would. But Katie was soon bored. She wandered the bedroom adjoining the alcove, playing with the long red ribbons that ran down the front of her dress.
He’d forgotten the family photographs his mother had lined up on the bureau. Framed in silver, they were the exact right height to catch a four-year-old’s eye. Katie walked their length and halted before one of the photographs, the one she least needed to see, the one he least wanted to remember.
Of course she picked it up. She looked to her mother first, the question plain on her innocent face, and for the first time in a long time, Jack felt the nakedness of real fear. Was this what it meant to be a father? To make yourself remember what you most wanted to forget?
He laid his hand on her head to reassure her. “Do you know who the man in the picture is, Katie?”
“You,” she replied, tilting back to look at him. “’Cept your hair is too brown.”
“He’s my father, John B. Tarkenton.”
She cocked her head in puzzlement. “But he looks the same as you.”
“That picture was taken when he was about the same age I am now.”
She glanced around the room. “Is this his room?”
“No, Katie. This is my mother’s room.”
“Where’s your daddy’s room?”
Jack noted how quickly that question broke Meg’s reverie. She hurried over, held her hand out to Katie and smiled gently. “Put the picture back, sweetheart. It’s time for us to go now.”
“I want to see his daddy’s room first,” said Katie, taking Jack’s hand instead.
Meg sent him a quelling look and drew Katie to the bureau, helping her replace the framed photograph. “Do you remember when I told you about Aunt Amanda’s daddy and that he died when she was young? Well, Aunt Amanda and Uncle Jack are brother and sister, and they have the same daddy. He died a long time ago.”
Katie slipped her thumb into her mouth. “Did he have an accident?”
“Not like your daddy,” Meg said, smoothing Katie’s hair. “Not a car accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Katie asked around her thumb.
Meg hesitated, searching for words. Jack didn’t blame her. He wasn’t sure how to explain assassination to a four-year-old, either. But he’d been only a few months older than Katie was now when his father died, and he’d asked the same questions. The adults whispered and his mother cried, and he learned that he shouldn’t ask, for no one could bear to tell him the truth.
“More like a people accident, Katie,” he said.
Her solemn gaze fastened on him. “What’s a people accident?”
Meg knelt beside her. “A bad man shot him, honey.”
Katie’s eyes widened. “With a gun?”
“Yes,” he supplied.
Meg skewered him with one look. Clearly, she didn’t want Katie to hear the details. “That’s enough, sweetheart. It’s time for us to go home.”
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Jack followed them from the room. “I wasn’t much older than you are now, Katie, when my father died,” he offered. “I had just turned five.”
“I’m going to be five on my nextest birthday,” Katie announced, taking her thumb from her mouth. “My daddy’s coming to bring lots of presents.”
Meg halted in her tracks. “Your daddy?” she asked, exchanging puzzled looks with Jack.
Katie nodded vigorously. “He’s coming down the chimney like Santa.”
“Oh, sweetie, no,” Meg said, hugging her. “Only Santa comes down chimneys.”
Katie turned trusting eyes to Jack. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Meg pleaded to him in silent anguish, an anguish he found difficult to ignore. But he couldn’t ignore Katie’s anguish, either, not when hers was dressed in the unsustainable world of make-believe. “I wanted my dad to come home, too, Katie, after he died. Chimney or the front door, it didn’t matter, as long as he came home.”
Katie nodded. “I wait by the window so I can see him when he drives up the street. But it’s getting darker and darker and sometimes I fall asleep, and he can’t come ’less I’m watching.”
“Oh, Katie,” Meg exclaimed. “You mustn’t believe such things.”
“But I have to watch all the time, Mommy. Else he won’t come.”
Struck by the seriousness of Katie’s expression, Jack smoothed her hair back the same way her mother had. “Do you think that’s why your daddy died, Katie?” he asked. “Because you weren’t watching?”
Clearly startled, Meg gaped at him. But Katie contemplated him with a certain interest, a certain curiosity, placed her thumb back into her mouth and nodded, sucking softly. Meg turned absolutely ashen.
That’s when Jack knew why he had brought them here. To punish himself. God knew he needed it. Not only had he abandoned Meg from the start, he hadn’t been there for Katie, either.
Careful not to threaten, careful to keep matter-of-fact, he led them to the nearest chair and helped settle Katie on her mother’s lap. Crouching below their level, he reached for the right words, the simplest of words. Simple enough for a child to understand.
Meg’s watchful mistrust may have been why the words came slowly to him. Or maybe the words came slowly because he had never heard them spoken out loud before. He conjured them out of his own experience, his own memory, his own soul. They were the words he needed to hear but never did, once upon a time, when he was five years old.
“When a person dies, he won’t come back, Katie,” he began. “That’s the hard part about dying. No matter how much
your daddy loved you or how much you loved him, he won’t ever come back. He can’t, you see. That’s what being dead means. It’s just not possible.”
His voice sounded rusty and hoarse, even to him. That was unusual. He always knew what to say and how to say it, whatever the occasion. That was his special gift, the one inheritance from his father that he appreciated and put to good and frequent use. “And your daddy didn’t die because of you, Katie,” he continued, taking her tiny hand. “Nothing you did made him die. That’s why it’s called an accident. It’s no one’s fault The truth is, we all have to die sometime. No one can change that. And no one can bring your daddy back.”
She leaned into the shelter of her mother and studied him, sucking her thumb. She didn’t cry. She wasn’t ready to cry. She wasn’t ready to take it all in, either. She was far too young to have suffered such a tragedy. Unfortunately, that didn’t keep tragedies from happening.
When he ran out of words, he looked to Meg. She took up the slack. She talked about how Katie had her daddy’s picture by her bed and that they would always keep him in their memory. She spoke of the church she and Katie went to, of God and family and friends. She said that when Katie missed her daddy especially much, she had her stuffed bunny to hold and her favorite blanket to snuggle under, the one her daddy had touched many times when he tucked her into bed at night.
Meg spoke of all the things Jack didn’t know about but should have.
Vincent van Gogh was right. It was much better to torture yourself rather than inflict it on others. Especially on a child you loved.
Jack insisted on driving them home, arranging for his mother’s chauffeur to return Meg’s Honda the next morning.
Meg didn’t argue. They were past arguing. Katie was the one who mattered most. Emotionally exhausted, she had fallen asleep in Meg’s arms.
Jack ran interference, gathering their coats and ordering his car be brought round while Meg made her thank-yous and goodbyes. She declined Bram’s offer to drive them home himself and Eleanor’s invitation for them to stay the night. Katie needed to sleep in her own house, in her own bed, Meg stated firmly, and she wasn’t shy about letting everybody know that she and Jack had some personal issues to discuss during the long drive home.