Tom would live here from now on, but things were going to be very different for him. Griff expected to know where he was; Tom would not spend his nights with his girlfriend; he would stop skipping school…
“Dad. Come on,” Tom said defensively. “Like, I messed up. I said I was sorry, and I am. I did a stupid thing, but as for skipping school—you know I got straight A’s last semester. I’ve already got enough credits for college, it’s not like I missed anything.” He paused, squaring his shoulders, and suddenly looked his father straight in the eye. “And I’m not all that sure I want to go on to college anyway.”
“Suddenly you don’t want to go to college?” Something had snapped in Griff; Susan could see it and instinctively leaned forward.
“No, I’m not sure I do,” Tom said flatly, a belligerent spark in his eyes. “Four more years of school? For what? I can go to work and make some money.”
“And just what kind of money do you think you could earn without an education? I swear to God, if I had known about this girl—”
Tom stiffened. “Leave Candice out of it. I—”
“Griff. Tom.” Both pairs of blazing eyes shifted unwillingly in her direction. “You’re both tired, and I think you’ve had enough. We can talk some more tomorrow…”
“Stay out of this, Susan!”
The command was delivered curtly, in a voice both cruel and cold. Susan felt the blood drain from her face as she stared in disbelief at Griff’s dark eyes. There was no softness of I-take-it-back. He meant it. She felt as if she’d suddenly been relegated to the role of outsider, a third party who mattered not at all at the core of his life. The hurt went swift and deep; she would have preferred a knife wound.
“All right.” She stood up, cast a wan smile meant to reassure Tom, and started walking toward the stairs.
“Susan…”
She heard Griff, but once she was out of sight she could not take the stairs fast enough.
Chapter 10
Like a robot, Susan turned into the dark hall at the top of the stairs, not bothering to switch on a light. Tears blurred her eyes as she searched out sheets and pillows to make up the bed in Tom’s room. The bedroom was still not finished; the rich dark wood and crimson carpeting were masculine and dramatic, choices Susan had felt instinctively Tom would like. Beyond providing a bed, a dresser and shelves, she’d left the room alone so that Tom could decorate it in his own way. She’d just never imagined that his first night would be quite like this one. When she had made up the bed, she walked soundlessly toward her bedroom.
She slipped out of her sweater and skirt, then lined up her shoes in the closet. Basically neat, tonight Susan was obsessively so, which struck her almost as funny, since she was maneuvering in total darkness. So turn on the light, bright one.
She didn’t. She tossed the peach lace bra and slip and her stockings in the hamper, washed her face, brushed her hair. All in the dark. She tugged on a nightgown, pulled down the comforter and slipped between cold sheets. It was nearly eleven, the luminous dial on the bedside clock informed her. Not an unreasonable time to go to sleep, for a working woman who had to get up at six.
Unfortunately, every muscle in her body was as rigid as iron. She was prepared for a fire alarm or some other emergency, but not at all prepared to relax. Sleep might just happen in the next century.
All he’d said was one simple sentence: Stay out of this, Susan. He hadn’t sworn at her. Or shouted. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know Griff was worn out with fatigue and that he’d been harrowed by anxiety for his son. He’d eaten no real food, had too little sleep. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t know she was ridiculously oversensitive where Griff was concerned.
That was all very well. But Griff had never hurt her before, never shut her out. He loved her in bed; she didn’t doubt that. She knew that he loved other things about her, including her ability—and need—to make a home. It had just never occurred to her that he thought she was capable of upholstering a chair but not wise enough to share his problems.
Shut up, Susan. Count sheep, she advised herself. Analyze your life in the morning. It’ll still be there. The wound would heal as all heart wounds eventually did. “Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not from love,” as Shakespeare had put it. But for once, literary quotes offered her no comfort.
So he didn’t want her there, not in a crisis that touched them deeply—the first crisis of their married life. She had known from the beginning that there would be problems with the kids; no one had twisted her arm and forced her to put on that wedding ring, and the last thing Griff needed was an oversensitive, overreactive, overemotional female…
She had a dozen sheep’s-wool sweaters knitted by the time Griff hesitated at the door to their darkened room. Susan froze, instantly closing her eyes. He was in his bare feet; there was no sound for a few seconds. Then she heard the plop of a linen shirt on the floor, the faint sound of his zipper going down; the rustle of wool sliding down thighs. Then silence.
A cool draft shivered along her spine as the mattress sank beneath her. Firm, silent hands rearranged the sheet around her, then tucked the comforter meticulously around her neck and breasts and stomach. Not her calves and feet. Griff had discovered the first night they were together that she couldn’t sleep with her toes barricaded in covers…
A warm thigh slid next to her own, the hard muscle so familiar. An arm slid between hers and her side, and she could smell Griff. Male. Distinctly male Griff. He leaned over her suddenly, slid his arm back out and brushed her hair back from her forehead. She didn’t so much as breathe.
“You’re hugging that mattress as if it’s going to bite you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Susan.”
The tips of his fingers stroked her hair again. “You’re so sensitive, Susie. It’s one of the things I love about you,” he murmured. “I’ve always had a quick temper. The kids are used to it—a fast explosion and then it’s done, but I never meant for you to get caught in the cross fire. For three days, I’ve had nothing in my head but the image of Tom in an accident, maybe not even alive…”
“Oh, Griff, I know that,” Susan whispered wrenchingly.
He leaned back wearily against the pillows, drawing her close, his arms wrapped around her as he pressed a kiss on the crown of her head. “When I saw how little authority Sheila’s really had over him, something just exploded. I’m sorry if I shut you out, Susan. My anger wasn’t really aimed at you. I was angry with myself, because I’d failed to keep the kind of contact with Tom that he needed. Of course I want you to be part of his life, part of all the kids’ lives. But it wasn’t your fault that he ran off. It was mine. I had to deal with that alone.”
“I understand,” she said gently, and raised two fingers to his lips. He didn’t need to say anything more. She really did understand.
He shifted one more time to settle a kiss on her lips. Soft, gentle, alluring, reassuring… She matched his teasing pressure, but when she sensed the almost imperceptible change, a kindling of other emotions intruding in his touch, she pulled back, nestled her cheek on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. “You’re desperate for sleep, Griff,” she said quietly. “So am I. Everything will look different tomorrow.”
His body stiffened just slightly at that subtle rejection. It didn’t last; it couldn’t. He was too exhausted. He was asleep almost on the next breath, but Susan’s eyes remained wide open for a long time. She did understand, and she, too, had wanted to make love, to pour balm on that first hurt between them and give it a chance to heal. Yet making love would not solve every problem, and all the questions were still there in Susan’s head, questions that refused to go away and seemed increasingly important each day. Would his children ever fully accept her? Was Griff going to accept her help in dealing with them? Would he back her up if she came to a showdown with one of the children?
Susan, this is the perfect time to learn how to relax, she told herself. Now, close your eyes. She did. Susan, let�
�s not make something monumental out of a day that was totally traumatic.
She tried.
***
It had taken a mere seven days to get a custody hearing, and even then Griff had been impatient at the law’s delay. Susan’s heels clicked determinedly down the silent hall. On her right stood a row of heavy oak doors. On her left were several tall, oblong windows. At the end of the corridor, she faced a white wall with a single portrait of a judge done in oils. The judge in the picture was named Horshaw. His nose looked as if it had been broken once or twice. Susan turned around.
She began to pace again. On her right this time were the tall, oblong windows; on her left, the huge oak doors. At the other end of the hall were two black-and-white signs, one marked Stairs and the other Women. The signs hadn’t changed noticeably since her last walk in that direction. She pivoted again.
Horshaw’s nose hadn’t improved. Actually, he had rather shifty eyes.
She paused at a window and checked on a fingernail to break the monotony. Julie, Griff’s sister, had taken Tiger and Barbara and Tom back to their respective schools earlier that morning. The only time Susan had had alone with Griff was the period when the judge talked individually and privately with each child. The kids had been camping out at Julie’s apartment for the past few days; the judge had felt that they would suffer less anxiety if they stayed away from both parents until the hearing was over. Julie claimed, all lighthearted banter, that they were having a terrific time. Susan doubted that, fretting over the children’s emotional reactions to this whole week of stress, but certainly they had shown no anxiety leaving the judge’s chambers.
Nervously, Susan turned again, and at the end of the corridor pushed open the door to the women’s room, which she could have described with her eyes closed, should that have become necessary. The pale blue sinks hadn’t changed color. The mirror was still spotless. She found one more imaginary wrinkle to smooth out in the peach knit dress that so subtly revealed her distinctly feminine figure. Not a maternal choice, she scolded the image in the mirror. Her reflection was tired of hearing the same old thing. She debated using the facilities, but there was really no point. One cup of coffee four hours before had simply failed to produce the need. Not a fifth time.
Pushing the door open again, she headed back to Judge Horshaw. He still looked mean as hell, but he was company. And her stomach was all knotted up. Her mind seemed to have the cognitive capacity of a four-year-old’s. One just couldn’t tell about Minnesota judges. Not that she’d ever met a judge in her life, but Horshaw’s physiognomy was far from reassuring. The issue wasn’t Horshaw but the judge on the other side of the oak door, the one with the power to decide whether children belonged with their mother no matter what the circumstances. Sheila claimed she didn’t intend to fight Griff for custody, but Susan had her doubts. Sheila was impulsive, unpredictable and had an ax to grind against both Griff and Susan. Looking at it more charitably, whatever her conduct, Sheila was the children’s mother, and what mother wouldn’t fight for her kids? A large private settlement in lieu of child support was all she wanted, Griff had told Susan, but she couldn’t quite believe that.
Susan had had her own individual interview with the judge, and then had been shunted out of the hearing, just like everyone else. She hadn’t even had time to brood about her choice of the peach dress in favor of the nice conservative little navy blue one that made her look bosomy and maternal. The one that she had left in the closet that morning. Now that she was all alone in the hall, she knew what she should have worn, just as she suddenly had brilliant answers for all the judge’s questions. Impressive detail, emotional impact, ear-ringing conviction…
But what had she actually said? The children would have a period of adjustment; she’d said she understood that. She had explained her idea of a nurturing home and family life; she’d described the way in which she saw the three children and their individual needs. She didn’t know a great deal about children; she’d had to admit that. She would love them, yes. Loving them would not be difficult at all. God, that answer had come from the heart.
What could possibly be taking so long?
The oak door burst open, and she whirled to face it. Griff’s gray suit was somber, proper, the maroon tie just so, the starched shirt dauntingly appropriate, blond hair slicked back, neat and conservative. He turned to her, and she caught the dancing dark eyes. Joy, relief, happiness …
Her heels click-clicked, then went into double time. In seconds, she was in Griff’s arms; her toes left the floor as he caught her in a bear hug, and suddenly both of them were laughing. Tears in public embarrassed Susan, yet her lashes were shamelessly damp. God, he felt good! How much worry and guilt had he shed in the past few minutes? Tons. She could feel his relief in the relaxed strength of his arms, see it in his dancing eyes, sense it in the kiss he gave her, which a dozen people—including Sheila—made a polite effort to ignore as they walked past.
The children were theirs.
***
After four chaotic days of moving all the kids’ belongings to their house, Griff had announced that he and Susan were going to steal two hours of privacy away from all the confusion. Susan had her choice of restaurants. “I think you deliberately brought me here because you knew you’d be the most beautiful woman in the place,” Griff accused.
Susan nodded, pitching into the lobster on her plate with the same enthusiasm Griff was showing. Her eyes flicked absently around the attractive restaurant. Anchors and boating paraphernalia decorated the expensively paneled walls; thick navy carpeting felt lush beneath her stockinged feet. She had tucked her shoes out of sight a second and a half after sitting down. If the kids were only four days new to the household, her feet seemed to have aged a thousand years. The peace and silence of the restaurant seemed appallingly strange.
Four other women were seated at nearby tables. One was chunky, to put it politely. Two were skinny and wore horn-rimmed glasses—a matched pair. And one was a dowager swaddled in brocade. Susan definitely felt beautiful, if a trifle annoyed with herself. It was an evening for champagne, the first evening she and Griff had been alone together to celebrate the past momentous week, but instead of wine, she was sipping water. Her stomach rejected the thought of alcohol; this would have annoyed her even more if Griff had noticed. He hadn’t. “If you feel attracted to anyone else in the room, this is probably the only evening in our entire marriage when I will invite you to flirt with another woman,” she offered gravely.
“Thank you so much, Susan.”
“The one in the purple-and-red print is probably very friendly,” Susan encouraged.
“I’d need a paper bag.”
She gulped down a mouthful of water and stared at him. “Was that a vulgar comment?” she asked interestedly.
“Of course not, Susan.”
His eyes were full of the very devil; they had been all evening. He stabbed a succulent bit of lobster, dipped it in butter and raised the fork to her lips. When she’d first met him, such an action would have made her eyes dart around in alarm to make sure that no one was watching. Now she couldn’t care less. Griff had been a disgustingly debilitating influence on her sense of propriety and reserve.
He was also the handsomest man in the place. Oh, there was the one self-satisfied number in the corner, all dark hair and brooding bedroom eyes. He’d assessed Susan’s figure like a surveyor when she’d walked in. Griff had meticulously seated her out of the man’s line of vision, but Susan noted that her husband’s eyes occasionally flicked past her, sending out civilized little articles of war. She knew exactly the moment the man left.
The waitress stopped at their table with a pot of coffee. Susan nodded yes. Griff just looked at her. He was having distinct difficulty keeping his hands off his wife. There seemed a special loveliness about her lately, and especially tonight. He’d asked her to wear the peach dress again; that was part of it. So was the special luster to her hair, the sheer joy that radiated from her clea
r gray eyes. Her happiness bubbled so easily when the people around her were happy, an unselfish quality that stirred protective feelings in Griff. “Susan.”
She lifted her head as she wiped her drenched fingers on a napkin, and leaned back, replete.
“Honey, I know you can’t feel entirely comfortable with how fast this has all happened with the kids,” he said quietly.
“Of course I am, Griff—”
“Three more people in the household so suddenly?” He shook his head, leaning both elbows on the table and pushing his plate out of his way. “If it doesn’t bother you, love, it does me. I’ve come to depend on the private times with you, Susie, and loving the kids doesn’t mean we don’t have the right to be alone anymore. Naturally, this week has been sheer confusion, but when the tennis racquets and CDs and whatnot are all in their proper places, it might help if we got someone in to clean the house.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “You mean a housekeeper?”
He nodded. “And someone who’d prepare an occasional meal, be home when the kids arrive from school—”
“Nope.” Susan smiled. “Griff, I just hired Jeff to help out at the shop so I can get home by three. That gives me lots of time to take care of the house, and it allows me to be home for the kids after school.” She added in a cloaked whisper, “Kindly don’t mention it too loud in this feminist day and age, but I happen to like homemaking. Disgusting, I know…”
“Honey…”
“No one’s going to break my china but me. Besides, Sheila will have the kids every second weekend. It’ll work out. You’ll see.” Why she sounded so sure, Susan had no idea. Except that just having acquired a family, she felt possessive about them. No intruders wanted. And surely the incredible chaos of the past few days couldn’t last forever?
“I hope you’re thinking of the cost, Miss Penny Pincher of the Year, where you yourself are concerned—”
Trouble in Paradise Page 12