Disguised Blessing

by Georgia Bockoven

  “Did you know she told me she didn’t want me coming around when she left the hospital?” He ran his hands over the leather-covered steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

  “No.” Catherine didn’t know what else to say.

  He turned and gave her a self-conscious grin. “I told her I wouldn’t be coming to see her, that I had a thing for older women.”

  Another night, any other night, and Catherine would have laughed at the outrageous statement. Though she knew there wasn’t enough truth in what he’d said for a con man to squeak past a lie detector, being dumped by Tom had left her just vulnerable enough to feel oddly flattered. “And what did she say to that?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  He laughed. “She thinks you’re pretty cool.”

  “I think she’s pretty cool, too.” Catherine reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Rick is picking you up tomorrow?”

  She nodded. A month ago she’d barely known Brian and hadn’t even met Rick. Now, with the exception of Gene, she counted on them more than men she’d known her entire life. Maybe she should stick to short-term relationships. They seemed to work out the best.

  Catherine told Brian to drive carefully, said good-bye, and stood at the front door until he was out of the driveway. When his taillights disappeared around the corner, she sighed and went inside her empty, silent house. The security lights, a lamp in the family room and one in the back office, guided her to the hall closet where she put away her purse. A faint, lingering smell of cleaning products reminded her that it was Wednesday and that Juli, her three-times-a-week housekeeper, had been there to scrub and polish a house full of unused rooms.

  Despite their decision not to live together until they were married, Tom was woven into Catherine’s and Lynda’s lives like the third strand of a braid. Everywhere she looked she saw him, from the humidor on the coffee table filled with his contraband Cuban cigars to the unread Wall Street Journals piling up by the sofa to the Bombay gin at the bar. She could feel his presence in the furniture he’d talked her into rearranging, the cupboards filled with his preferred brands of food, and even her own closet where his taste prevailed in the gifts he’d given her.

  Seeking escape, if only for a moment, she grabbed her key and went to pick up the mail. Dry, warm air wrapped around her possessively as she stepped from her island of air-conditioning. Crickets, frogs, and air conditioning compressors created a familiar, discordant harmony. A full moon cast lurking shadows among the heritage oaks. As always when she ventured outside at night, Catherine felt a niggling warning. Her fear was more primal than reasonable, instigated and perpetuated by reports of yet another mountain lion being sighted in yet another foothill community, reports that became lead stories on slow news days.

  Wild turkeys, brought to California and released by hunters, provided the lure for the half dozen sightings they’d had in their area. The turkeys freely wandered the manicured, acre-sized lawns during the day, a cross between curiosity and nuisance, tolerated by most, sworn at by others.

  Catherine had never spotted the mountain lion that visited them periodically, but she’d seen his pawprints at the koi pond and secretly liked that something wild and free existed in her ordered life. Without the mountain lion she would enter the night without listening, look into the shadows without seeing, and never know the kind of wariness that made her forget, if only for the time she walked to the mailbox, that her ordinary, everyday life was falling down around her like windows in an earthquake.

  She waited until she was back inside again to look at the inch-thick stack of mail. Most of it was for Lynda, cards and letters from friends determined to get through to her one way or another. The rest was an assortment of flyers and bills. The flyers went into the garbage, the bills into an ever growing stack she promised herself to get to one day. Soon.

  She looked at the stack and decided it had better be damn soon. Right then, preferably. Instead she went to the refrigerator, took out the bottle of chardonnay she’d opened the night before, and poured herself a glass. She was headed for the back deck when the phone rang.

  “Don’t you ever pick up your messages?”

  Her mother. Just about the last person she wanted to talk to. “I’m fine, Mom. How are you? And what are you doing up at this hour?”

  “The hour doesn’t seem to bother Tom. He’s called three times tonight looking for you. He said he left half a dozen messages on your machine. I know it’s none of my business, but have you two had a fight?”

  “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  “So you did have a fight.”

  “Mom—please. I really don’t want to talk about Tom right now. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow.” There it was. She’d given her mother an opening.

  “Do you want me to come over?” she asked, her voice gentle with understanding.

  The kindness nearly undid Catherine. “No, I’m okay. I just need some time alone.”

  “Well, I’m here if you need me. Anytime. Don’t worry about waking me up. I’m in the middle of a great book that I can’t seem to put down, so I’ll probably be up all night anyway.”

  As much as Phyllis Martin loved to read, there was no way she would ever let a book keep her up all night. She relished the daylight too much and would never give in to a nap. “I love you, Mom.”

  “Oh, baby, I love you, too.” She waited several seconds and added, “This doesn’t have anything to do with Lynda, does it? I’m sorry, I had to ask.”

  “Lynda’s okay. Actually, she’s better than okay, she’s fantastic. I think my daughter and I are on the path to becoming friends.”

  “I told you it would happen. Wait long enough, keep the path clear, and mothers and daughters will find each other eventually.”

  Catherine took a sip of wine. She let the liquid linger on her tongue, taking a second to savor the delicate flavors. Tonight it wasn’t the flavor of the wine she was after. The sip was followed by a large swallow. She tucked the portable phone under her chin, took the bottle in one hand and her glass in the other, and went outside to sit on the deck.

  Settling into a chair, she asked, “Are you still leaving on Friday?” Her mother made a yearly pilgrimage to Washington where she and several of her old sorority sisters rented a house on Bainbridge Island. They took the house for a month with no set arrival or departure date.

  “I thought I would—unless you need me here. I’m not staying as long this time, though. I want to be around for Lynda’s homecoming. We should do something to make it really special.”

  “Let’s wait a while before we make any plans.” First the car and then a party. Catherine filled her glass again, leaned back, and stared at the flood of lights that filled the valley between her and Sacramento. Heat rose in undulating waves from the acres of concrete and asphalt that now blanketed rich farmland, distorting the lights, making them blink like distant stars.

  “So what are you going to do instead?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, hearing the weariness in her own voice.

  “What’s wrong, Catherine? Is there something you’re afraid to tell me?”

  “I’m just worn down, Mom,” she said evasively. “I’ll sound better in the morning. After I’ve had some sleep.”

  “I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t push. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better get back to my book and let you call Tom.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Catherine pressed the Off button and put the phone on the table. At least she’d been warned that Tom was looking for her again. Now she knew not to answer the phone.

  Later, as she put the last of the wine in the refrigerator and washed her glass, her gaze fell on the stack of unpaid bills. How could she have been so stupid to let Tom talk her into quitting her job? Her piddling paycheck—as Tom had ca
lled it—had made the difference between tight and comfortable for her and Lynda every month. They could make it without that money, but just barely.

  In a moment of excitement over his upcoming freedom and guilt over her discovering him in bed with another woman, Jack had agreed to her attorney’s wildly optimistic divorce settlement proposal with only minor changes. He’d regretted his generosity from the moment the first month’s funds were transferred from his account to hers, and had taken her back to court in an unsuccessful attempt to get it reduced. Of all the good wishes that had come her way with the news that she was getting married again, none had been more enthusiastic than Jack’s.

  If there was a silver lining to the day’s events, it was the prospect of telling Jack that the wedding was off. Catherine let herself luxuriate in the prospect for a moment, aware it wouldn’t last. She hated being dependent on Jack since their divorce, and had looked forward to the day the alimony would end almost as much as he had. It didn’t matter that the settlement came wrapped with self-righteous claims that she deserved what she received from Jack; she couldn’t escape the fact that he earned the money that paid her bills. When they were married she’d felt she more than earned her share of the income, the way she would have with Tom.

  She lived in financial bondage. She’d talked herself into believing Tom represented freedom. But all he’d really offered was a new cell. Funny how the tarnish of facts diminished whatever glow of love still remained.

  Alone in the dark, silent house with only her thoughts for company, Catherine struggled for answers.

  How could she have fallen in love with a man like Tom? What flaw in her personality, what deep-seated need, what compulsion had come into play to blind her to the real man inside the stunningly handsome package?

  Of everything she’d lost that night, her confidence had suffered the most damaging blow. Twice she’d given her heart to men who’d abandoned her. Who bore the real blame for their actions—her or them?

  One of her father’s oft-used homilies came to her. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

  She caught her breath in a quick sob.

  She was alone. Again. The joy that came with knowing there was someone to share her day with was gone. For years she’d tried to keep alone from meaning lonely and had never found the formula, finally accepting that she functioned best as half of a pair. What irony that she lacked the ability to find someone who felt the same.

  At least she understood her failings now. She wouldn’t try again. Once she’d believed in love over self-preservation, but the pain demanded too much, stole too many years.

  She would go back to work because she had to, but this time it wouldn’t be just a job she went after; she would find a career even if she had to go back to school. She’d fill her days with the stimulation and challenge of making money the way Jack and Tom and Gene and every other man she knew did. To hell with the nights. She would find a way to get through them until the loneliness became as natural and unimposing as breathing.

  Catherine turned out the lights and headed for the stairs and her bedroom. Her hand gripped the railing and she froze. She couldn’t go up. Not yet. Tom had never spent an entire night in her bed, but she had imagined what it would be like to wake up and find him there so many times that it had become habit.

  She went into the living room and curled up on the sofa. Her first test in the new independent world she planned to create for herself and she’d failed. Hardly an auspicious beginning.

  She’d do better tomorrow. She had to. Broken hearts got in the way of everyday life, and Lynda needed her.

  The telephone rang. Once, twice, three, four times before the machine picked up. Catherine listened as her own voice cheerfully announced the daily update on Lynda and then invited the caller to leave a message. She expectantly held her breath at the tone—waiting for Tom’s voice to tell her he’d made a terrible mistake and beg her forgiveness—all the while knowing there was nothing he could say that could mend the tear in their relationship. Knowing how he felt, she couldn’t trust him not to hurt her daughter, and Lynda came first. She always had, she always would. It wasn’t sacrifice or commitment—it simply was.

  The line stayed open for several seconds. Finally there was a click, a defining moment of finality.

  Catherine turned her face into the pillow and silently wept.

  14

  RICK RANG THE DOORBELL TO CATHERINE’S HOUSE, then stepped to the side and stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He studied the impressive double doors as he waited. They were made of hundreds of pieces of beveled glass leaded together in an art deco pattern and framed in a dark, rich mahogany. Stunning in concept and execution, the doors were museum-quality work that seemed oddly out of place in the modified ranch style house.

  Without question, the easily breached entry came with an alarm system as impressive as the rest of the house. People who lived in gated communities with full-time guards placed a high value on security for themselves and their property. They believed they’d earned the right to flaunt the results of their hard work, but only to those of their choosing. Casual observers were not invited or tolerated.

  The door opened just as Rick was about to ring the bell again. “I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I was on the phone with the insurance agent. Please come in.”

  She had on a pale blue cotton dress, sleeveless and simple, cut above the knee and fitted to her hips as if it had been made just for her. Her sandals were woven leather, her legs bare, and her hair done up in a twist with the ends sticking out. A narrow gold band circled her wrist, but the engagement ring she’d had on the night before was missing. Rick took it all in with a glance and then forced himself to look elsewhere—to the Persian carpet that protected the marble entry and the crystal chandelier that hung overhead at precisely the right height to reflect through the glass doors at night.

  “Nice,” he commented.

  “Yeah, it is,” she said without enthusiasm. “I liked the view, Jack liked the house. Or so he thought. As soon as we moved in, he decided it wasn’t what he’d wanted after all. Not big enough. Which is why I’m still here and he’s in that hotel-like thing he had built in Carmichael.”

  From the outside, Rick had judged the house to be between four and five thousand square feet. Jack must run with some crowd if that wasn’t enough to impress them.

  He followed her through the foyer and into the family room, which opened to the kitchen. A wall of windows overlooked the Sacramento Valley—at least what was visible through the haze. “What did you find out about the car?”

  “The radiator leaks, so it can’t be driven. Tom’s agent was going to have it towed to one of their contract garages but I told him I had my own mechanic.” She grinned sheepishly. “And then I couldn’t remember the name you gave me so I said I’d have to call him back.” She moved to the kitchen and took a cup out of the cupboard. “Coffee?”

  He shouldn’t. He had a dozen things he had to get done that day and coffee with Catherine wasn’t one of them. “Please—black.”

  She poured from a stainless steel carafe and handed him the cup. “When I talked to Tom this morning I told him I either confiscated his car until mine was fixed or he made arrangements for me to pick up a rental car.” This time she smiled. “He has a Corvette. Want to guess which option he chose?”

  Rick sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter and tasted the coffee. It was good. Better than good—the best he’d had in a long time. He refused to consider it might be more the company than the brew.

  “Considering the day you had yesterday, you’re in an awfully good mood this morning.”

  “I know, I thought the same thing. It’s amazing what a little self-righteous anger can do for you. I woke up so mad at Tom for what he’s done that I couldn’t think about anything else.”

  If she’d slept at all, it hadn’t been for long. Her makeup helped, but he could still see the dark circles under her eyes
. “He’s an idiot,” Rick said without thinking. Seeing her surprised reaction, he quickly added, “I’m sorry. I had no right to say that.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I can be tactless at times.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I want to know why you think Tom’s an idiot.”

  If he told her the truth, he’d be stepping over a boundary they needed to maintain their professional relationship. He was there to help Lynda. To go beyond that, to get involved personally, would compromise his work and the work of the Burn Association. “He could have saved himself and everyone else a lot of trouble if he’d called a cab last night.”

  “Oh…”

  It was plainly not what she’d wanted him to say. She was in pain and looking for an analgesic, not rationale. He changed the subject. “Has Lynda let any of her friends come to see her yet?”

  “Brian’s the only one.”

  “It might be a good idea to start encouraging her to see one or two of them. The longer she puts it off, the harder it’s going to be.”

  “I’ll talk to her about it today.” She picked up a sponge and wiped an already immaculate counter. “I shouldn’t be keeping you here like this. I’m sure you have a lot of things you’d like to get done today.”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “I’ll get my purse and we can leave.”

  Rick took his cup to the sink, rinsed it out, and put it in the dishwasher. While he waited he went to the window and looked out at the acre-sized lot. The landscaping was as lush and expensive-looking as the house. A redwood walkway led to a free-form pool at the bottom of the hill. Fed by a moss-rock waterfall, the pool appeared more natural than man-made, an effect often attempted by the pool builders in the area, but rarely accomplished.

  The maintenance on this place would take half his salary. Add taxes and insurance and there wouldn’t be anything left for little necessities like food.

  “I can get lost in the view,” Catherine said, coming up to stand next to him. “Especially at night when you can’t see the pollution.”