Too late, because she’d already launched her attack. “All you ever wanted was the money and the glamor and the glory of my success! Forget having a daughter who might get pimples or skin her knee or be too busy with school or friends or a boy to play her part. I could never be fallible.” Hopelessly she threw up her hands. “Fallible? I couldn’t be a kid! Do you know what I felt like by. the time I was a teenager?”
Mrs. Howard rose to her feet and stood extraordinarily still. “No.”
“Like I was for sale.” Bile rose in her throat. “And you were the seller.”
Under bright spots of makeup, her mother’s face had gone pale. “What a dreadful thing to say!”
“Wasn’t I?” Madeline challenged.
“No!” Ghostly white stood out on the knuckles of her mother’s hands as she clasped them together. “I did my best for you.”
Something close to hatred laced Madeline’s voice. Contempt, perhaps. “That was your best?”
For a moment Mrs. Howard’s gaze faltered and her mouth trembled, but then she lifted her chin and looked Madeline straight in the eye. “I suppose,” she said with dignity, “I did want the money and the glamor. Once we’d stumbled into it, it was tempting. But what you’ve forgotten is that you wanted that life, too. From the time you were a tiny girl, you came alive on the stage or in front of photographers. You begged to go to auditions.”
“We fought constantly!”
“When you were a teenager. Other parents fought with their teenagers, too. Underneath, I thought you loved the life. If nothing else, I hope you’ll believe that much.”
“How can I?” Madeline’s voice rose and she whirled away. “I begged you to let me spend the night with friends or date or play sports! I wanted so badly to be like everyone else.”
She felt her mother’s tentative touch on her arm, and she flinched.
“I’ll say only one more thing.” Now Mrs. Howard sounded completely composed and inexpressibly sad. “After your father left, we were desperately poor. You were too young to know. We lost our house right away, and the places I could afford to rent got worse and worse. Your day care ate up half of what I earned. I had absolutely no skills that would give us a chance. When I read about the beauty pageant, it seemed like—” her voice quivered “—a bright spot in our lives. Something fun. Exciting. You were so pretty. I suppose I was channeling my own longing for chances I’d never had. I don’t know. But when you won and the agent took you on, and then they offered money for you to spend a few hours modeling…” She was begging now. “It had to be better than the way we were living.”
Madeline couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it. Her eyes were dry, burning, and her stomach churned with pain. She couldn’t even bring herself to face her mother.
For the longest time neither moved or said a word. At last Mrs. Howard said quietly, “I always loved you. I’d have loved you even if you weren’t pretty. I was…proud of you, I admit it. I let you be our financial salvation. Maybe that was wrong. But it had nothing to do with how I loved you. Or how I love you now.”
“Then why,” Madeline whispered, “didn’t you ever say that?”
“I don’t know.”
Madeline felt as much as heard her mother leave the room, a whisper of footsteps receding, the soft closing of the guest-room door. And now the hot tears poured down her cheeks.
GARTH DIDN’T TALK on the way home. Eric had studied himself carefully in the mirror after dressing to be sure he didn’t have a smear of lipstick on his neck or some other dead giveaway. Except for a stupid grin he couldn’t seem to wipe off his face, he saw nothing unusual. And what kid really looked at his father, anyway?
Not his. Garth stalked past him to the car, slumped down in his seat and, when they reached home, hurried into the house and slammed his bedroom door.
“Good night!” Eric shouted.
No rejoinder came from his son.
Tiredness replaced some of his earlier buoyancy. He opened canned food for the cats and made his usual nighttime rounds, locking up and checking windows, then took a quick shower and turned out the lights. By that time, only darkness showed beneath Garth’s bedroom door.
Eric’s bedcovers held a wisp of Madeline’s perfume—and a muskier scent. Sex. Restless, he kicked off the covers and lay sprawled on his back, wearing nothing but boxer shorts, staring up into nothingness.
He wanted her here again, warm and substantial, her voice drifting softly from the darkness beside him: “I’m sure.” He wanted to feel again as if he could walk on water, as if she loved him.
Instead, uneasiness stole over him, settling heavily in his stomach, keeping his eyes open, shoehoming his thoughts into an inescapable maze.
Why, tonight, had Madeline defied everything she believed, everything she feared? Why had she flaunted her beauty? Seduced him?
Why was she suddenly “sure”?
He flung an arm over his face and clenched his teeth. Had he really made love to her? Or to a total stranger?
And how could he ever ask her?
Worse yet, why—despite his uneasiness—had he gotten so sexually excited? She was a beautiful woman. Was that all it took to push his buttons?
Hell. Maybe he was as shallow as Madeline had accused him of being.
By the time the sun rose and his alarm clock buzzed, he hadn’t found any answers to his questions. He wasn’t sure he liked himself any too well this morning, either.
To Eric’s surprise, Garth emerged for breakfast, even though it was a Saturday.
“I have to work today,” Eric said, probably unnecessarily.
His son nodded. “You always work on Saturdays.”
“Teresa and I switch sometimes.”
Garth picked up the empty milk carton and shook it. “Do we have any more?”
“Hmm?” Eric set down his coffee cup. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. In the fridge.” He watched the boy opening cupboard doors. “Last night okay?”
Garth’s shoulders hunched, but after a moment he gave a jerky shrug. “Yeah. Mark and I played computer games and just talked and stuff.”
“Good,” Eric said without expression. He didn’t dare say anything that might be construed as “I told you so.”
“He wants to see Ron and Chev.”
“He’s welcome any time.”
“Yeah, he might come over today.” Garth poured milk on his cereal, then dumped several spoonfuls of sugar on for good measure.
Eric raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Instead, he said, surprising himself, “You’ve met some of the women I’ve dated. Were they all beautiful?”
Garth stared. Milk sloshed out of the bowl. “Yeah, pretty much,” he said, after apparently giving it some thought. “I mean, weren’t they?”
“It’s not the only reason I dated them.” And who the hell was he arguing with?
Garth gave him an odd look and set the bowl down on the table. He turned the chair around and straddled it. “Sure, Dad,” he agreed with the air of a nursing-home, attendant pacifying a senile resident.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t really know them,” Garth said reasonably. “Except Madeline.”
“And?” Eric found himself leaning forward.
“Well?” His son. looked at him with eyes too shrewd for a kid his age. “You oughtta know why you like her. How should I?”
Good point. One that stuck with Eric all day. It was his turn to make farm calls, primarily pregnancy checks on dairy cows. While he stood ankle-deep in liquid manure, hand squeezed in a big bony Guernsey’s rectum as he felt for the pealike growth in the ovary, his thoughts continued stumbling through the maze he’d become lost in last night.
Had he chosen women for their beauty rather than their character?
This was a hell of a moment for a memory to come to him. Danielle…something. Her last name eluded him. She was short, a little plump, mousey-haired; not homely, exactly, but no beauty, either. They’d been in 4-H together,
and he’d really liked her, but now he cringed at how dismissively he’d rated her. “Nice” hadn’t cut it. They’d become friends, and eventually he’d become aware that she expected him to ask her out. She’d been watching him when she hadn’t thought he’d noticed. He’d become aware of her as a girl, too. She’d had nice breasts; he’d done his own share of staring. But she hadn’t been pretty enough to be seen with. He started being busier with other friends. He’d dropped her flat.
Shortly afterward, he’d begun dating Cindy Hawcroft, a cheerleader and, ultimately, a homecoming queen. Dumb as an Irish setter, but as pretty as one, with hair the same shade of red. The two of them hadn’t had a damned thing in common. Apparently that hadn’t mattered to him then.
Shamed, he left the Eide farm and headed for the next. During the drive, he ran through all the girls he could remember dating in college. Pretty, every one. There’d been others, but friends only. He didn’t date a girl who wouldn’t excite the envy of his friends, however much he liked her.
He still didn’t. Beautiful women awakened his hunting instincts like a weak calf did a wolfs. Had he ever seriously considered asking out a woman who was merely pleasant-looking?
He couldn’t remember a one.
Eric parked his truck in the next farmyard, got out and automatically began suiting up in rubber overalls and vest and a new plastic sleeve.
His first reaction to his self-analysis had been to decide he was scum, but now he decided it was worse than that. He was pitiful. So concerned about what other people saw when they looked at him, he’d married a woman he had nothing to say to. And he hadn’t even learned from that mistake!
The farmer came up behind him and slapped him on the back. “How’s Dr. Hughes?”
Eric accepted the greeting as it was meant. Selecting vials of drugs he might need, he inserted them into slots on a tray. “Fine. Another month to go.”
“Irene is knitting some little thing for her. Hat and booties, I think.”
“I’ll tell Teresa.” Preparations complete, Eric said, “Well, I’m all set.”
When he got home at five-thirty, he phoned Madeline. She sounded subdued, reticent
“You okay?” he asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Me?” Her voice held a false note of surprise. “Just tired. You must be, too.”
“Long day,” he agreed.
“And a late night.”
“An incredible night,” Eric said warmly.
“Yes.” The note of constraint sounded again. “Yes, it was.”
He gripped the receiver more tightly. “You’re not sorry?”
The pause chilled his soul. “No, of course not.”
“You’re free tomorrow?”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked cautiously.
“Remember that trail ride we planned? Garth’s counting on it.”
“Oh, no! I’d completely forgotten! Let me think.” He heard a muffled conversation. She came back on the line. “What time?”
“We’d better not make it too long a ride if you want to still be walking Monday. Say, we leave here about ten?”
“Sounds good. I’ll be at your place by then.” She drew an audible breath. “I’d better go. See you to-morrow, Eric.”
Frowning, he hung up. No I love you. I can hardly wait to see you. Did you dream about me? Just, “See you tomorrow.”
Great. Not only did he have to doubt his own motives, now he had to wonder about hers, as well.
Had she gotten cold feet? Or had the real Madeline Howard come to, looked around and recoiled from what her alter ego had done in bed with him last night?
THAT MORNING, Madeline had been waiting for the hot water to boil when her mother came into the kitchen. Their eyes met for one stark pain-filled moment before Madeline looked away.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did last night.”
“Maybe you should have said it years ago.”
“Why?” Madeline blindly poured boiling water over the tea bag in her cup. “What’s the point? It doesn’t help to whine about the past. All I did was hurt you.”
“As I apparently did you.”
Madeline faced her again and was shocked by how much older her mother looked this morning. Wearing a bathrobe, she had yet to put on her “face,” as she called it. The real face was carved with lines of exhaustion and age. Her pale lips were pinched, and traces of gray showed at the roots of her hair. She must have stayed here longer than she’d intended, or she would have had her hair done right before she’d come. Madeline had never seen her mother show her vulnerability as she was right this minute, in the kitchen at nine in the morning.
On a rush of remorse, Madeline said, “Can I pour you some coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please.” Mrs. Howard sat down heavily, as though her legs had given way. She said nothing about the detrimental effects of caffeine.
“Mom…”
“Madeline…”
They both stopped. After a defenseless moment Mrs. Howard said quietly, “I think I ought to go home.”
Yesterday her mother’s announcement would have been welcome. Now, the idea of her mother going— and with things left like this between them—upset Madeline.
“You don’t have to,” she said, and then realized how graceless that sounded. She took a breath. “I’ve been wondering about this visit. Something has been different about you.”
How delicately put! Not quite a question, but begging for an answer nonetheless.
“Yes.” Mrs. Howard concentrated on stirring nonfat creamer into her coffee. After a long pause she said, “Lately I seem to have been thinking a lot about my life. Something to do with my age, I suppose.” Still she stirred the coffee, the action meaningless, something to fix on. “No, that’s not quite true.” She looked up at last and visibly braced herself. “I’m getting married. At least I’m considering it. I haven’t decided.”
Getting married? Her mother? Not so long ago, Madeline had wondered why she never had. So why was the idea so shocking now?
She sank into a chair. “Why didn’t you say?”
“There’s a good deal we haven’t said to each other, isn’t there?” Mrs. Howard’s smile wasn’t very successful. “In this case…well, I suppose I’m so undecided I felt I ought to keep it to myself. Or perhaps I was just waiting for the right moment.”
Instinct had Madeline reaching across the table to cover her mother’s thin hand with her own. Gazing at the sight—women’s hands both, now—she realized how seldom they touched. She gave a gentle self-conscious squeeze and let go. “Why are you undecided? Don’t you love him?”
A soft smile transformed her mother’s face. For an instant she looked thirty years younger. “Yes, I think I do.” She sounded almost surprised. “It’s not that. It’s me.” The creases and sags of age reappeared on her face. “I haven’t exactly been a success at relationships. Your father of course. And…I wasn’t much of a mother apparently.”
Madeline closed her eyes, guilt stabbing deep. How many times had she hinted that visits remain short or begged off completely? Made excuses to herself for not calling? “I…haven’t been much of a daughter, either.”
“Parents bear the responsibility.”
“Do they? I’m an adult, too.” In theory. Maybe children never did become adults where their parents were concerned.
“You weren’t during the years that counted.”
“Mom…” Madeline wasn’t ready to let go of her bitterness altogether, perhaps it didn’t happen that way, like a floodgate opening, but rather in a slow trickle, like a crack in a dam. Maybe a little of her stored anger had leaked out already. “Mom,” Madeline said again, “if you did the best you could, what’s to regret? I was a child—I didn’t understand what you faced. I promise I’ll think about what you said last night. But you shouldn’t let any…coolness between us keep you from making a commitment to a man.”
Her mother lifted elegant brows. “Haven’t you?”
“All I’ve asked for is a man to see beneath the surface. It has nothing to do with you!”
“I’m not so sure,” her mother murmured.
Madeline let it pass. Not certain she wouldn’t regret this, she said, “I wish you’d stay a little longer, Mom. Maybe, now that we’re talking, we should do some more of it. You’ll have to tell me about my future stepfather.”
She was shocked to see tears spring into her mother’s eyes. Madeline had never seen her cry. But Mrs. Howard dabbed them with a napkin and said with quiet dignity, “Thank you. I’d like that very much.”
Madeline couldn’t be sorry she’d suggested it. Tomorrow she might be, but not today.
Who knew? She and her mother might even become friends. Miracles happened.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MADELINE GRABBED the saddle horn and held on for dear life as Honey’s powerful hindquarters bunched. With a lurch, the horse propelled herself up a steep four-foot bank.
“You can open your eyes now,” Eric said, amusement a husky undertone in his voice.
Madeline did, cautiously. He waited on top of his borrowed gray Arabian, arms crossed as he leaned negligently against the saddle horn. Boots scuffed and dusty, denim shirt rolled up to show lean brown forearms, he looked at home on a horse. Behind her, leather creaked and the bay mare Garth rode let out a grunt of effort as she, too, mounted the bank.
Acres of grassy land planted with tiny seedling Douglas firs stretched out ahead. Right now, the grass and wildflowers dominated, daisies and tall purple spires of fireweed and a few delicate bright blue blooms that looked like flax. The-well-beaten trail they’d been following widened to the width of a logging road here and wound in long swoops between the rows of seedlings.
“Oh, this is wonderful!” Madeline said with pleasure. The sun felt gloriously warm on her face and bare arms; she found she even liked the smell of leather and horse sweat mixed with the tang of the deep forest from which they’d just emerged.
According to the sign at the entrance, this enormous tree farm was open to walkers, cyclists and horseback riders, but closed to motorized vehicles. Half-a-dozen horse trailers had been parked outside the gates when Eric had backed his own trailer into one of the few remaining slots. The drive from White Horse hadn’t taken more than half an hour. Garth had told Madeline that last summer he and Garth had trailered up here every week or two, usually with Teresa and her kids. The place was so big—stands of fifty-year-old trees alternating with those the size of Christmas trees—they had yet to see any of the other riders.
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