Marrying Molly

by Christine Rimmer

  Tate sat down to dinner at seven—alone. Tucker wasn't home yet from wherever he'd got himself off to that day. And Molly?

  Tate picked up his napkin and snapped it open so hard it sounded like a .22 going off right there in the dining room.

  Molly didn't live there anymore.

  Tate smoothed his napkin on his lap and picked up his fork. He'd done the right thing, and no one would dare to say he hadn't. She was never going to marry him, and it was better if he just got used to the idea, better if he stopped letting her string him along.

  He was a man, wasn't he? And a man can only take so much of being denied.

  His babies...

  He cleared his throat—loudly—and stabbed at a piece of carrot.

  His babies would be born without his name. So be it. He didn't like it. He would never like it. It was wrong. But he was through lying to himself that Molly would ever do the right thing and marry him.

  Once they were born, well, he'd have to see about what to do next. Maybe they'd be better off full-time with him. Yeah. Maybe he would have to take his children away from her.

  For their own good, of course, whispered a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his grandfather's.

  Tate sat very still. No, he thought. I am not like my grandfather, no matter what anybody says. I'm my own damn man, and I'll decide what to do about the children later. There would be plenty of time for that.

  Right now, he only had to...

  What?

  He looked down at the slice of carrot on the end of his fork and muttered aloud, "Eat, damn it." He poked the carrot in his mouth and stolidly chewed.

  It tasted like sawdust.

  He put down his fork. He had no appetite. No point in eating when he wasn't the least bit hungry.

  Tate tucked his napkin in at the side of his plate and pushed back his chair. Work, he thought. He always had plenty of that to do.

  An hour later, as he sat at his desk, staring blindly at the computer screen and scrolling randomly up and down the rows of figures before him, he heard an eager, whining sound coming from the doorway.

  He glanced that way. The ugliest puppy he'd ever seen—with wiry hair and short legs and enormous feet—sat there watching him. When he looked at it, it stood up on those ridiculous stumpy legs and wagged its skinny wire-haired tail.

  "Tucker," he said darkly.

  Laughing, Tucker appeared in the doorway and scooped up the ugly little mutt, which immediately wiggled in ecstasy and licked him repeatedly on the face. "Meet Fargo," he said, dodging that big, wet puppy tongue.

  "What is it?" Tate asked, against his own better judgment.

  "Good question," said his brother, scratching the ugly thing behind one of its floppy ears. The dog whimpered in ecstasy. Tucker held it away and studied it for a moment. "My guess? Wired-haired terrier of one kind or other and maybe dachshund or beagle."

  "Damn, Tuck. It's a mess."

  Tucker pulled the puppy close and covered its big ears. "Don't listen, Fargo. He doesn't mean it."

  "The hell I don't—and don't tell me you're keeping it."

  "I'm keeping it," Tucker told him, wearing a wide grin, scratching the thing under its chin.

  "I thought you were talking about a black Lab, or a golden retriever?"

  "Now, what do I need with some big, noble, gorgeous pedigreed dog? Uh-uh. Fargo's more my style. I knew it the minute I spotted him, on my way home just now. He was waiting outside the Gas 'n Go, in a big box labeled Free Puppies."

  "Well. At least you didn't pay good money for it."

  Tucker hoisted the puppy up on his shoulder where it promptly set to work licking his ear. "Enough with insulting my dog," he said, half joking. But half not.

  "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say." Tate couldn't help asking, "Why Fargo?"

  Tucker shrugged. "Why not? You want to hold him?"

  "Ah. No."

  "Where's Molly? She's gonna love him."

  Molly.

  For a moment there, while he ribbed his brother about his rotten taste in dogs, he'd almost succeeded in pushing her from his mind.

  But now she was back. With a vengeance. His gut tightened and he wanted to break something.

  Tucker was frowning. "Tate?"

  Might as well say it. It wasn't as if Tuck wouldn't find out soon enough. "Molly's gone."

  Tucker said nothing. He put the dog down. It set off, wiggling around the room, sniffing the furniture.

  "That dog had better not—"

  "He's newspaper-trained, and he used the Classifieds about ten minutes ago. Molly's gone where?"

  "Home."

  "But this is her ho..." Tucker's voice trailed off and his mouth fell open. "You didn't."

  Tate had a powerful urge to pick up his computer monitor and hurl it against the far wall. Instead, he said, very carefully, "I didn't what?"

  "Send her away..." Tucker looked at him narrowly. "By God. You did. She's the best thing that ever happened to you, and you went and sent her away."

  "You don't know squat. And that's just fine. Because all you need to know is that she's moved out. She won't be coming back."

  That should have been enough information for Tucker, shouldn't it?

  "Why?"

  Tate just looked at him, for a long time. He was waiting for his brother to give up and go away.

  But Tucker didn't give up. And he didn't go anywhere, either. He stayed in the doorway, looking grim. "Tate, I asked you why?"

  "Why?" repeated Tate, dangerously soft and low. "You want to know why?"

  "That's right. I do."

  Tate laid it on him. "Because she told me no one too many times, that's why. Because she had to nose around where she had no business going—and then she wouldn't give it up when I told her to let it be."

  Tucker's dog had wandered back to him. It plopped to its haunches and looked up at its master with a small, hopeful whine. Tucker bent again and scooped it up. That time, the puppy didn't squirm or try to lick Tucker's face. It just hung there, cupped in Tucker's hand, draped along his arm. It had its tongue hanging out and it panted, happy as a pig in a pen full of manure.

  "Give what up?" Tucker asked.

  Tate was getting good and tired of answering Tucker's questions. At the same time, far back in his mind somewhere, a tiny voice that just might have been his conscience nagged, If you didn't want him asking about the damn diary and those old newspaper clippings, you shouldn 't have made mention of her nosing around in them, now should you?

  "Tate?" Tucker asked. Tate growled in response. Tucker demanded, "What the hell is going on?"

  About then, something Molly had said started playing through Tate's mind.

  Maybe you don't care about the truth, but Tucker just might feel differently....

  Damn it. All right. It was possible that she had a point there—or at least a half of one.

  Tate still believed that the diary contained nothing more than a lonely, fanciful woman's absurd imaginings. But that woman was Tucker's mother, too. Tucker did have a right to make his own decision about whether to read it or not.

  Tate stood. He came around the desk and strode to the door, which his brother was blocking. "Step aside."

  There was one of those moments. Tucker looked at Tate and Tate glared back at him. Tate was thinking he wouldn't mind a fight in the least. Beating up his brother and breaking some furniture might take the edge off what was eating him. He had a sense Tucker was just irritated enough at him to throw the first punch.

  But in the end, Tucker stepped back into the entry hall, clearing the doorway. Tate went through. "This way," he said over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

  Tucker fell in behind him. Tate mounted the stairs, his brother's footsteps echoing behind his own. At the upstairs landing, he led Tucker around to the half-packed-up room that had once been their mother's.

  "Wow," Tucker said. "Haven't been up here since I got back..." His dog gave a whimper and Tucker petted it, soo
thing it.

  Tate bent down and picked up the trash basket on the far side of the bureau. He shoved it at Tucker. "Here."

  "Great. Now you want me to take out the trash."

  With a heavy sigh, Tate pulled out the envelope of clippings and the gold-trimmed green book and put the trash basket back on the floor. "These were our mother's. Some sort of diary and a bunch of clippings from old newspapers. Molly found them in a hidden compartment in the back of the closet."

  "Hidden? Why?"

  "You want to take a guess at how many times you've said 'why' in the last ten minutes?"

  "But I don't—"

  "Look. You want answers?" He shoved the stuff at Tucker again. That time Tucker took it. "Start reading."

  Somehow, by Tuesday, when Molly went back to work, everyone in town seemed to know that she wasn't living with Tate anymore.

  "Molly, you don't need that man. It's a good thing you got out from under his thumb."

  "Now, Molly, you should go back, don't you think? Whatever happened between the two of you, it can be patched up."

  "You got a pair of buns in the oven, hon. And than means you are in serious need of a ring on your finger. When you gonna realize that?"

  "It's a woman's place to crawl sometimes. Don't take it personal. Just get down on your knees and beg him to forgive you for whatever it was he says you did..."

  "Darlin', you are free at last. I knew you'd get away from him. And I don't care what the rest of them say. I say, good for you..."

  How did they find out so fast? Molly wondered. Tate wouldn't have said anything—or anyone in her family. Or Tucker, either, though she imagined he must have known by then.

  Maybe Miranda or Jesse?

  But both of them had known what she and Tate were up to in March, during their three weeks of secret passion'. They had never said a word to anyone. It made no sense they'd be spreading tales now.

  So who had spilled the beans?

  Molly figured she'd probably never know. Living in the Junction, you just had to accept that any secret you had wouldn't stay that way for long.

  And that everyone knew she and Tate were over hardly mattered to her, anyway. She went through each day in a fog of longing and sadness. She missed Tate so much. It was like what they say will happen when you lose an arm. You still feel as if it's there. Every now and then, you completely forget that one of your arms is gone.

  And then you look over—what the heck? Nothing there.

  Like that. A ghost arm—her ghost love. Tate was there, in her heart. If she never saw him again, it wouldn't matter. He was never going to go away.

  Granny tried to tease her out of her misery. "Get me my shotgun, lovey dear. That Tate'll come back to you—or I'll blow a hole in him."

  Dixie tried to get her to go talk to him. "Go to him, baby. You can work it out, I know you can."

  Dixie just didn't understand. Tate had delivered the ultimatum, and Molly had refused to do what he wanted and now there was no fixing things, no making things right. Not with a man like Tate.

  In her sadness, she often pondered the fact that Tate's very strength and purposefulness and uncompromising nature were what had made him the only man she'd ever looked twice at. Really, they were so very much alike, the two of them.

  Maybe too much alike.

  Yeah. To make it work between a man and a woman, one of them had to give in now and then. Molly hadn't, and Tate wouldn't.

  Where did that leave them?

  Separated. With the whole dang town talking about it.

  "And you're having twins, too," Donetta said.

  Molly scowled at Donetta in the styling station mirror. "How did you know that?"

  "Well, honey. Don't you remember? You told everyone last week."

  "Oh," Molly said, and realized that maybe she had—the day of the ultrasound, wasn't it? When she and Tate were both so happy and everything had seemed as though it was working out fine...

  Donetta continued expressing her outrage. "How could he kick you out when you're having twins?"

  Molly considered telling Donetta that Tate hadn't exactly kicked her out, that she'd still be with him if only she'd opened her mouth and .said yes. But if she told Donetta that, she'd be in for a thousand more questions and a butt-load of unwanted advice. Nope. Better to just sigh and nod and resist the urge to do more with her scissors than cut Donetta's hair.

  If only she didn't miss him so darn much. If only she didn't feel as if a part of her was missing. If only she didn't wish every night that she could roll over and find him there, ready to wrap his big, strong arms around her and listen to her secrets and kiss her until her brain leaked out her ears.

  If only she didn't find herself wondering constantly, where is he now?

  What is he up to?

  How is he doing? Is he all right...?

  Tuesday afternoon around three, Tate sat at his desk, an open bottle of whiskey on the desk pad in front of him. The bottle blocked the center of his computer screen, which was showing him columns of numbers he didn't give a good damn about.

  He set down his empty glass, picked up the bottle and tipped in another two fingers' worth. "Hidey-ho," he muttered. "Why stop there?" And he poured in two fingers more.

  He knocked back about half of it and plunked his glass down—and noticed that Tucker was standing the doorway, a duffel in one hand and that ugly puppy of his in the other.

  "Pitiful," Tucker said. "Not to mention classic."

  Tate squinted at him—truth was, Tucker looked a little bit blurry around the edges. "I don' need to hear it—where you goin'?"

  "Headin' out."

  Tate squinted harder. "Leavin'?" He blinked and shook his head. There. Tucker was a little bit clearer. Wasn't he? "Uh...where to?"

  "I've got a few things to take care of. Fargo and I'll be back in a day or two."

  Tate considered asking him a second time where the hell he might be going—and if Leland knew that his new law partner was just taking off out of nowhere like this. But that was a lot of words and his tongue was feeling mighty thick.

  "Do your liver a favor," Tucker said. "Call her. Tell her you can't live without her and you were a damn fool."

  Before Tate could get his fat, slow tongue around Go to hell, Tucker had vanished from the doorway. A moment later, Tate heard the front door open and shut.

  And a second or two after that, the alarm went off. Damn that brother of his, he hadn't bothered to deal with it before he went out the door.

  "M'ranna!" Tate shouted. "M'ranna, the alarm!" He bellowed for the housekeeper a couple more times before it finally occurred to him that she had taken off to buy groceries about an hour before.

  "T'rrific," he muttered, as the piercing screaming sound drove into his skull. Slurring every swearword he knew, one after the other, Tate fumbled with the combination lock in the bottom drawer of the desk. Finally, he got the damn thing open and reached in to pull out his trusty .38.

  The alarm screamed on, drilling a hole of burning hurt into his pounding head. Still discovering new swearwords to slur, Tate pushed himself upright and staggered toward the unbearable sound.

  Since the world was slowly spinning, he braced himself in the doorway Tucker had recently vacated and took aim, bracing his shooting arm with his free hand.

  Two shots exploded, each to the accompaniment of the constant, screaming beep, each creating a mini-crater in the wall. On the third shot, he was more careful. He squinted down the barrel, ordering the world to stop moving, willing the damn bullet to go where he pointed it.

  A hit!

  The alarm box exploded—and sweet quiet reigned. Tate let his arm drop to his side and slid slowly down the door frame. He was still sitting there when the Tate's Junction two-man police department arrived.

  "Lord in heaven, Tate," said Police Chief Ed Polk. "What's happened here?"

  "Li'l dishcussion with the alarm, tha's all. An ish no pro'lem. Molly allus hated the damn thing, anyways..."
r />   Drinking didn't help.

  He realized that the next morning, when his head pounded like a gong and his stomach felt like it was lined with battery acid. He was just as miserable without Molly as he'd been before he got falling-down drunk. Only now, he was miserable and in excruciating pain.

  The hangover passed. By Thursday morning, he was feeling almost normal again—or rather, as normal as it was possible for him to feel when the only woman for him had packed up and moved out of his life, taking their unborn babies with her.

  By Thursday afternoon—four days, fifteen hours and about twenty minutes after she left him—he was starting to admit a few scary things to himself.

  He pulled a certain family album from a low shelf in the living room and went to his office, where he moved the big ottoman in the sitting area. Pushing the chairs out of the way, he flipped the rug back and opened the floor safe. From the safe he removed a document: the marriage license of Blake Phelan Bravo and Penelope Louise Tate. He put the rug back down and the chairs and ottoman in place on top of it and he went to sit at his desk, where he laid the document on the desk pad before him and opened the family album to the two pictures of his mother and father on their wedding day.

  He looked at the pictures first, as he'd done a hundred times before. In both of them, his mother stared straight at the camera, wearing a deer-in-the-head-lights look, as if she'd been caught standing next to this strange man and wasn't sure what price she would pay for it. His father looked at his mother in one picture—and off to the side in the other. In both he was turned three-quarters away, giving a great view of his ear and one side of the back of his head, but making it pretty difficult for someone who'd never known him to imagine what he'd actually looked like. He'd had dark hair and he was tall and broad-shouldered—like a fair percentage of men.

  Tate put the album aside and studied the marriage license. He examined the signatures of his parents, looked at his mother's and father's birthdates, their residences at the time of the marriage, their years of education completed. There were the full names of both sets of parents—his grandmother and his grandfather and two other grandparents he'd never met. The license also had boxes for the occupations of his mother and father—hers, student; his, "investments." It had boxes for education completed and type of "business or industry."