Donna lowered her head and plunged her spoon into the half cantaloupe on her plate. Mrs. Cooper came in from the kitchen with a platter of scrambled eggs and small sausages in her hands. As soon as she saw they hadn’t finished their melon, she stopped.
“That’s all right,” Laura said with an effort. “Put it down here, please. I’ll serve.”
Mrs. Cooper put the platter down, then went to the sideboard for the coffeepot to fill Donna’s cup.
“E.J.,” she said pleasantly, “Your little friend, Malcolm, is on the phone.” E.J. shot a quick glance at his father. Mark nodded, and E.J. put down his napkin and hurried from the room, darting in front of Mrs. Cooper as she left.
“Thank you,” Donna said as the kitchen door swung shut. She tried desperately to think of something—anything—to say to fill the silence.
Mark forestalled her. “Donna, I want to thank you for putting in so much overtime. Summer’s a bit rough because of the vacations. I appreciate the help.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said hastily. “I don’t mind work. Mom taught me that. And if it wasn’t for Fenton and Hunt vacations I probably wouldn’t have a summer job, right?”
Mark forced a tight little laugh. “Right. Anyhow, I’ll sure give you a bang-up reference when you leave.”
Laura broke in “You haven’t answered my question, Mark.”
He looked blank for a moment, and then, in a pathetic attempt at humor, added. “Will you repeat the question, please ma’am?”
But Laura was having none of it. “I said don’t put all the blame on me for driving E.J. to school and back. You agreed, dammit. You thought it was the best thing to do.” She was so angry she was shaking.
“I did,” Mark said slowly, as if realizing for the first time how angry his wife was. He turned to Donna. “Forgive us,” he said with a weak grin. “Little lapse in communication, I guess. Yes, Laura, I did agree. When he was in kindergarten. He’s completed the first grade now, and he’s a fairly mature kid. And you didn’t answer his question.”
“Mark!” Laura flung her napkin onto the table and rose from her chair.
“Well,” Mark continued levelly. “He asked if you were going to insist on driving him to school next year.”
Without another word, Laura turned and left the room. Donna, terribly embarrassed for both of them, saw the sunlight flash on Laura’s bracelet as she stepped outside onto the terrace.
“Sorry about that. I guess I shouldn’t have said that.” He watched as E.J. came barreling back into the room and took his seat. “You’d better get going on that melon, son. Or don’t you want it?”
“Not really,” E.J. said. Donna noticed, with a lump in her throat, that his brief chat with his little friend hadn’t lightened his mood any. He still looked upset.
“Okay.” Mark reached over and took away the plate. “Eggs?” he asked, but E.J.’s doleful look answered him. “Well, why don’t you just drink your milk and we’ll call it even. You can eat a bigger lunch today, okay?”
E.J. silently picked up his glass and gulped the milk noisily without further comment from his father.
Mark leaned forward, trying to see where Laura had gone. Then, with a muttered, “Excuse me, please,” he too rose and left the table to go out on the terrace.
E.J. put down his empty glass and looked, wide-eyed, at Donna. She gave him a smile of encouragement. “You have a milk mustache. Do you want to wipe it off?” she asked.
He blotted it carefully with his napkin. “Are you going to have eggs and all that stuff?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Well, I have to brush my teeth before school, and I…well, if I go, you’ll be all by yourself. Is that okay?”
“Oh, sure, E.J. You’re sweet, you know that?”
He gave her a tentative grin and put his napkin on the table, his eyes quickening with interest at her next comment.
“Why are you going to this summer school anyhow, E.J.? You finished first grade all right, didn’t you?”
“Oh yeah. Kid stuff. And so’s this summer school. It’s not really school school, it’s more like painting pictures and making things. We’re making puppet heads now. I’m making a clown head. For Mom.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. She’ll be pleased.”
E.J. heaved a sigh. “This is my second choice, summer school is.”
“Oh. What was your first choice?” Her heart went out to the child.
“Summer camp.” He barely breathed the words, his eyes shining. “I thought for a while I could go to summer camp, but…but…”
“Well, maybe six is a little young for summer camp,” Donna said lamely. It wasn’t. He could have managed it, she thought. He was a very competent six-year-old. At six, she had still been living with Prairie. She had transferred on buses by herself, going across Vancouver with the door key on a string around her neck. She had got up alone in the morning and lit the stove and put the kettle on for Prairie’s coffee, and never once burned herself. Kids could cope, if you gave them half a chance.
“They had swimming,” E.J. started, “and first-aid training and all. You go by the buddy system. Everybody has a buddy to look out for, and…” He continued telling her about the camp.
Donna caught the sound of Laura’s voice, almost strident, from the terrace. Fortunately, E.J. didn’t notice, he was so taken up with his own words.
“Parents are supposed to back each other up, Mark. You should never, never—”
Donna heard the low murmur of Mark’s voice. His tone was reasonable, conciliatory, but his words were indistinct.
“I don’t care! I’m not going to have him on that van. How do I know what kind of driver…”
Mark spoke again, this time somewhat firmer. Donna caught the words “competent” and “other parents.”
E.J. looked at his watch. “Boy, the time!”
“Look,” Donna said hastily. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth. I’m fine here. I don’t mind finishing alone.”
Without a word, the boy tumbled out of his chair and shot out of the room. Donna heard him clattering up the stairs at a dead run.
Then, suddenly, she heard Mark’s voice. His words were clear and blunt.
“Laura, you’re going to have to let him go sometime—let go. I will not have him raised like a sheltered only child.”
“Only child? He is an only child.” Laura was fairly shouting now. “And whose fault is that? I ask you, whose fault is that?” Her words were cut off suddenly by a little choking sound, and Donna heard her add, “Oh, Mark, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She was obviously trying not to cry. Her voice seemed closer, and Donna, terrified they would come back and find her there, leaped up and ran out of the room, taking the stairs as fast as E.J. had.
Oh, those poor souls, to quarrel like that, and in someone else’s hearing. It told Donna that they had both reached the limits of their endurance over—over what? She was deeply shaken. Laura and Mark, along with her mother and father, were her ideals of marriage, a good, sound, happy marriage. What was wrong? Did Bruce know? She was shaking slightly as she went into her room and shut the door. She had to talk to Bruce.
DONNA DIDN’T HAVE a chance to speak to Bruce until after work, when she drove Laura’s car to his house. She had called him earlier at his office and asked if he would mind another run in the park; after groaning deeply, he had agreed. She gave two little beeps on the horn and waited for him. In a moment he came out the front door dressed, she noted, in a new gray sweat suit, and loped to the car.
“All ready?” she asked, making herself smile, and added, “The sweats look great. They’ll be more comfortable.”
“Thanks,” he said. “And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
They drove in almost total silence until they got to the park.
“Are we not speaking or something?” Bruce asked as they left the car.
“What?”
“Usually I can’t get a word in edgewise, and now you’ve gone si
lent on me. What’s the matter? There is something the matter, isn’t there?”
She looked at him for a long moment. How in the world could she talk about Laura and Mark’s problems? She felt like an intruder, and somehow disloyal.
“Since when have you clammed up when you had a problem?” Bruce asked easily. “Unload it, sweetheart. You always have before. Here, let’s sit down on the grass.” He sprawled at the base of a drooping willow, its fronds moving slowly in the summer breeze.
She sat beside him. “It’s Laura and Mark. I…that marriage is in trouble, isn’t it?” she blurted out.
“What?!” He sat up straight and faced her. “You’re out of your mind, Donna. Offhand, I’d say Laura and Mark’s marriage is possibly the strongest relationship in the universe. Whatever gave you that wild idea?”
“I don’t think it’s a wild idea, Bruce.” She bent over, worrying some blades of grass with nervous fingers. “There’s something wrong there. They quarrel. I think quite a lot.”
“Oh, Donna, you’ve gone off your rails, honey. I know my cousin, and when she went for Mark it was total, believe me. And I know Mark Hunt, better than I really want to, and believe me—”
“I don’t mean they don’t love each other…. I…”
“You’re living in their house, right? You’re going to hear some…well…differences of opinion between them—”
“Quarrels, Bruce,” she persisted. “Plural.” She pulled up a blade of grass and chewed it.
“All right, quarrels plural. There isn’t a married couple in the world that doesn’t have their fights. That’s part of it. Surely your mother and father have quarreled on occasion?”
“Ye-es, not often, but now and then, I guess they have.”
“Well, then…” He spread his hands. “Come on. Incidentally, what makes you think they have a lot of quarrels? Have you actually heard them, or what?”
“Yes. I have.” She took the blade of grass from her mouth and stared at it. “When I think about it, it isn’t really a lot of quarrels, Bruce. I don’t know if I can explain it or not. But it’s more like one long, long quarrel that goes on and on and never gets finished.” Despite her effort at control, her voice was unsteady. Laura and Mark meant so much to her and her family.
“Hey, steady now. And stop eating grass. I know you’re a health nut, but eating the lawn is too much.” He reached over and took the grass away. “That was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh at jokes.”
She forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I sort of ran out of laughs today. Bruce, it’s like there’s something there, under the surface, spoiling everything for them. But they keep going through the motions. Mark is so polite, so smooth, and Laura is so…so careful about my feelings…my feelings, of all things. And they’re hurting. I can feel the hurt.”
Bruce looked at her a long time, quite serious now. “This long, long quarrel that has no ending, do you have any idea at all what it’s about?” he asked gently.
“E.J.,” she answered promptly. “It’s always some disagreement centering around E.J. And this morning, I heard—I wasn’t deliberately listening, but I couldn’t help hearing—something about E.J. being an only child.” She stopped, too diffident and too fond of Laura to repeat Laura’s bitter accusation: “I ask you, whose fault is that?”
“Ah, little old E.J., is it?” Bruce clasped his arms around one raised knee and put his head down on it; when he spoke again, his face was hidden from view. “Yeah, you’re right, honey. I guess that is an old quarrel. Laura lost a baby a couple of years ago, but you knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mark is dead set against her getting pregnant again. He’s afraid he’ll lose her, too, next time.”
“But—she wants to try again?” Donna murmured.
“Having been reading between the lines myself for the last couple of years, I’d say yes, but Laura’s never said anything to me about it. She wouldn’t, probably thinking that it might reflect on Mr. Perfect himself. Make him appear stubborn—which he is—or something. But yes, I know in my gut that Laura wanted children, several of them, and they’ve stopped with E.J. That may be a point of conflict. But, Donna…” Bruce reached over and took both her hands into his. “They’ll work it out.” He drew her gently into his arms and held her against him with a slight rocking motion. “Honey, they’ve worked out tougher things than this.”
She tilted back her head and looked up into his face, suddenly tremulous. Bruce was going to kiss her again. Laura and Mark faded to the back of her mind, and she slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. He did this sometimes. He was careful and guarded and wary, and then sometimes, when she least expected it, he kissed her, like now.
“Donna, Donna,” he whispered against her lips. Then, ever so gently, he pushed her away.
She kept her eyes lowered to hide the singing triumph in her heart. He didn’t want to push her away. He didn’t want to! She felt it, knew it, as surely as she knew the sun rose in the morning and set in the evening. She let him push her away without resistance, and leaned forward on the lawn, balancing herself on closed fists. She wanted him, here, now, on the lawn beneath the willow tree, but she mustn’t let him see. She mustn’t.
She got up quickly. “If we’re going to run we’d better do our warm-ups,” she said, trying to sound brisk.
“Frankly, my dear,” Bruce said, getting up slowly, “I don’t give a damn about running today.” He was trying to keep it light.
She made herself laugh, and spun on her heels to face him. “What would you rather do?”
He gave her a lingering look. “Never mind, I’ll settle for running, I guess.” And Donna felt her face flame.
“I think I should mention one other thing before we start.” His voice was grim.
“And what’s that?” She made rather a business of adjusting the sweatband across her forehead.
“He’s back. Raymond Tsung. His secretary called my office today.”
“Oh, Bruce.” There was a quaver in her voice. “Already?”
“Right. Already. And I’m going to see him tomorrow. So start bracing yourself.”
“I am. I will. Now, listen, Bruce…” She stopped before he raised his hands.
“You said you’d go through with it, Donna. You promised.”
“I will, only…only…”
“Don’t sound so despairing. He may want nothing to do with you. He may—hey, Donna, wait.” But she had already taken off, running as hard as she could.
When he returned home after dropping her off an hour later, Bruce shut his door and leaned against it for a moment. Did she have any idea how gorgeous she was? He pushed himself away from the door and walked slowly into his study. He stretched across the desk and flipped through his calendar. How much longer was this summer? How many more days were there? His hand, as it turned the pages, was unsteady.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Donna got to Fenton and Hunt early in the hope of seeing Bruce before the workday started. To her dismay, the receptionist was sick, and she was elected to be trapped at the front desk most of the day. She knew that would curtail her freedom sharply, but she watched for Bruce anyway. He came in while she was busy writing down a phone message. She signaled for him to wait.
“What’s up? Why the frantic signals?”
She finished writing. “About today, Bruce,” she began and paused, smiling until one of the secretaries passed. “I’ve been thinking, and I think you’d better—”
He reached over and covered her hand. “Donna. It’s all settled what I’m going to do today, so forget it. Discussion is closed.”
“But what time?” she whispered desperately. “What time are you going to see him?”
“Two-fifteen, Donna. Gloria Hu got me in as the first appointment after his lunch. And I have the feeling that he’d probably have a longer lunch hour if it wasn’t for me.”
“Who’s Gloria Hoo?”
“His se
cretary. Now, are we through with this chat?”
“But, Bruce, I’ve been rethinking it and I can’t…last night I dreamed about Mom and Dad, and—”
“Stop vacillating, Donna. One minute you’re going through with it. The next minute you want to chicken out again. Stop it. If he wants to see you, you’re going to see him if I have to carry you in bodily. Clear?”
“Right, Chief!” She narrowed her eyes and gave him a smart salute; then she bowed her head over the desk, muttering to herself.
“I’m afraid I didn’t quite get that,” Bruce said. “Something about a macho male, wasn’t it? Well, never mind. I’ll report back to you this evening.”
AT TWO-TEN, BRUCE opened the great glass door of the Bank of Cathay, crossed marble tiles, passed gleaming rosewood desks, and walked behind a polished railing toward the tellers’ bronze grills.
“Pssssst. Mr. Fenton. Pssssst!”
He turned in search of the sibilant whisper and saw a broadly smiling and vaguely familiar face. He knew her, and struggled for her name. Gertrude Wong. Eddy Wong’s non-relation. He had quizzed her about Tsung.
“Good afternoon.” He smiled, hoping he wouldn’t have to stop. He had cut it pretty fine, and he didn’t want to be late. Tsung’s secretary had been very specific about the time, and had even called his secretary this morning to remind him of the appointment.
“Did he get it?” Gertrude Wong had risen from her desk, and she hurried toward him.
“Get it?” he echoed blankly.
“The award, you know.”
“Oh. Well, I’m just going up for an interview now,” Bruce said.
She smiled benignly and crossed her fingers. “Take the last elevator. That’s an express to the executive floor. Then a sharp left.”
“Thanks.” They waved crossed fingers at each other, and he hurried on, practically skidding to a stop before the elevators.
He arrived on the executive floor at two-fourteen by the clock over Gloria Hu’s smooth, shining head, which nodded to him gravely. She could, he thought, have traded her job for one as a model any time she pleased.
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