Lindsey glanced up to find Walker's gaze on her. It seemed to silently ask, "Are you all right?"
The very fact that he was there, and that he cared, made the hurt bearable.
"I could sleep in my old room," Lindsey said to her mother.
Bunny forced a smile. "With two thousand bears? Or rather," she said, stroking the head of the teddy bear that Lindsey still held, "two thousand and one?" Looking up at Walker, Bunny settled the issue with, "The back room."
Walker didn't argue.
"C'mon," Bunny said to her daughter as she slipped her arm about her waist and squeezed, "I've made us some coffee."
Coffee turned out to be not only a freshly perked brew made from home-ground beans, but also an apple spice cake—Lindsey's favorite. Under the circumstances, considering the stress that her mother was under, Lindsey felt like crying when she saw the cake.
"Ah, Mom, why did you go to this trouble?" she asked, knowing the answer even as she asked it. There was a breed of woman who considered cooking a religion and the kitchen as a place of worship. For them, cooking was an expression of love. Her mother was one such woman. Her father had often teased that he'd married her mother only because of her ability to cook. Lindsey wondered what excuse he'd offer as to why he was divorcing her.
"It gave me something to do," Bunny said, automatically filling a mug with coffee.
Lindsey noticed that her mother's hand trembled. She longed to take the hand in hers and still the shaking. Instead, she set the teddy bear on the countertop and reached for the pitcher of cream her mother had just removed from the refrigerator. As though it had been innately programmed in her genes, as though it wouldn't do to do otherwise, Bunny had placed the cream pitcher on a paper doily.
"Coffee?" Bunny asked when Walker appeared in the doorway.
"No, thanks. I need to run. I'm doubling as a secretary these days."
"Is Gerri still out?" Bunny asked.
Lindsey recognized the name of the woman who'd been the company secretary/bookkeeper for several years. She knew that Gerri was divorced and had a teenage son. She also knew that, at least at one time, Gerri had had eyes for Walker. If Walker had known it, he'd ignored it. But then, maybe he'd changed his mind. Eighteen months was a long time. And, if he was still ignoring Gerri, was there someone else he wasn't ignoring? Maybe even several someone elses?
"Yeah," Lindsey heard Walker say, "and she's gonna be out a lot longer. The doctor says she has mono."
"Oh, no," Bunny said. "I knew she wasn't feeling well. Dean said... I knew she wasn't feeling well."
"What are you going to do?" Lindsey asked.
"Call one of those agencies specializing in temporary help, I guess." Walker grinned, slashing deep groves into his cheeks. His whisker-shadowed cheeks, Lindsey couldn't help but notice. "When, and if, I can find the time."
The telephone rang. Bunny reached for the phone hanging on the kitchen wall.
Walker waved a goodbye to her and looked over at Lindsey, who called out, "Thanks for meeting me."
"No problem."
"Hello?" Bunny said into the receiver. She said nothing for a moment, then stammered, "Y-yes, she got in. No, no... she's right here."
The ashen shade of pale which she turned, plus the fact that her hand gripped the receiver with white-knuckle force, drew both Lindsey's and Walker's attention. Walker, concern etching his face, halted in the act of leaving.
"It's, uh, it's your father," Bunny said as she passed the phone to her daughter. The woman immediately picked up a rag and began to wipe at the already clean countertop.
"Hello?" Lindsey said, her gaze on her mother.
"Hi, sweetheart," came the voice of Dean Ellison.
Memories swirled about Lindsey—memories of piggyback rides, memories of stories about wolves and trolls and monsters read in a deep, exaggerated basso, memories of dancing on the tops of her daddy's feet. Lindsey felt her throat tighten with emotion. She also felt a twinge of the anger she'd felt before. Why did her father, this man she loved above all others, have to go and change everything?
"Hi, Daddy," she said, unable to hold on to the anger.
"How was the flight?"
"It was good."
"Did Walker meet you?"
At the mention of Walker's name, Lindsey glanced up. Walker was standing in the doorway, looking at Lindsey. She smiled. "Yeah, he met me."
"Good," Dean replied, but Lindsey could hear her father's mind changing gears. She could hear the conversation shifting to the reason for the call. "Listen, sweetheart, I'd planned on seeing you tonight, but I'm stuck out on one of the platforms. Looks like I'm not going to be able to get away."
Disappointment raced through Lindsey. She wanted to talk to her father. The sooner, the better. She wanted to work this nonsense out, so that everything could go back to being the way it was.
"I'm sorry," Dean said, sensing Lindsey's mood.
"If you can't get away, you can't get away."
Walker stepped back into the room. "What's wrong?" he mouthed.
"He's out on a platform and can't get away," she answered Walker, then said into the receiver, "No, I was talking to Walker. He asked what was wrong."
Lindsey could have sworn that her father sounded a little flustered when he added, "Is Walker there?"
"Yeah, we just got home."
"Well, look, I won't keep you, sweetheart," Dean said. "And I promise to see you tomorrow. Okay?"
"Sure," Lindsey answered. Her mother hadn't looked up. She was still wiping the countertop and arranging the cream pitcher just so on the paper doily. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tell Walker that I'll—" Dean began, but never got to finish.
"Let me talk to him," Walker said, covering the distance to the phone and reaching for it.
"Walker wants to talk to you," Lindsey said, and handed over the receiver.
"Hey, what's going on?" Walker asked, one hand splayed at his waist.
"Oh, hey there," Dean said, hastily tacking on, "Look, I'm still out at Rig Three."
"Is there a problem?"
"No. I mean, yes and no."
"What's wrong? I thought all you had to do was fly in a replacement for the defective part."
"Yeah, well... I thought I'd just hang around to see if the part works. You know how much trouble we've had with this drill. I just want to make certain everything's okay before I fly back in. With our luck, I'd just have to turn around and fly right back out."
The silence that followed suggested that Walker was having trouble making sense out of his partner and friend's reasoning. For one thing, they weren't accustomed to baby-sitting a part. For another, if the part didn't work, if it, too, had to be replaced, Dean would have to fly in for another replacement.
Dean was obviously hearing the same lack of logic, for he rushed ahead with, "I'll, uh, I'll see you guys tomorrow."
"Right," Walker said. "Tomorrow." Stretching, he replaced the receiver on the wall phone.
"Problem, huh?" Lindsey said.
"Yeah. Rig Three."
Lindsey looked at Walker; Walker looked at Lindsey.
"I didn't know what to do about dinner," Bunny said, overbrightly and with the words tumbling over themselves, "so I thawed a chicken. I mean, I didn't know whether you'd be going out with your father or what, so I thawed a chicken just in case. We could have fried chicken or chicken and dumplings or I could make that chicken casserole you like."
"Anything's fine, Mom, but don't go to any trouble—"
"It's no trouble. We've got to eat," Bunny said, opening the refrigerator and seizing the chicken as though it were a lifeline to her sanity. Her back to Walker, she said, "And why don't you join us, Walker?"
Lindsey's eyes found Walker's. "Why don't you? That is, if you don't already have plans." Lindsey held her breath, wondering if Walker did, indeed, have plans for a Saturday night. If the women of Galveston had any sense, he was booked through the weekend, through the rest of his life.
"Why don't I take you two out?" Walker asked, unaware of Lindsey's relief.
"Nonsense," Bunny said. "You're tired, Lindsey's tired. We'll eat in." As she said this, she pulled open a drawer and extracted a knife. She began to cut up the chicken with what could only be called exuberance. "Hand me a bowl, would you, Lindsey?"
Lindsey did as bade.
"Is seven o'clock okay with you, Walker?" Bunny asked.
"That's fine. See ya'll then."
"You two have to decide how you want this chicken cooked," Bunny called out, her fingers still going a mile a minute. "We could have chicken spaghetti or lemon chicken or—"
"What if you just fry it, Mom?" Lindsey asked, knowing that was how Walker preferred his fowl.
A lazy grin spread across Walker's mouth as his gaze meshed with Lindsey's. "Now you're talking chicken."
Lindsey's gaze lowered to his lips, lips that had haunted her night and day for the past year and a half. She thought on a suppressed sigh, Now you're talking a first-class reason to cross the Atlantic.
"You need another piece of chicken," Bunny proclaimed that evening over dinner as she reached with trembling fingers for the platter in the middle of the table.
Walker, who had arrived precisely at seven, newly showered and shaved and wearing crisply creased khaki pants, held up his hand. "Un-uh. I've already had three pieces."
"Then what about another roll?" Bunny asked, turning back the daintily embroidered folds of the bread cover.
"No. Thanks. I'm fine."
"Tea. You need more tea," Bunny said as she pushed back her chair and started to rise.
"Stay seated, Mom. I'll get it." Lindsey rose, walked to the cabinet and returned to the table with a pitcher containing an amber-colored liquid. She smiled at Walker as she refilled his glass.
"Thanks," he said, noticing that for all she'd been through, both emotionally and travelwise, she looked good.
In fact, she looked better than good. She looked downright pretty. As he took in the billowy cloud of blond hair, the curvy hips encased in jeans, the high heels that made her long legs seem even longer, he was once more struck by the new maturity that she wore so becomingly. He was also aware of a subtle fragrance that alluringly arrived seconds before she did. The fragrance reminded him of sweetness, freshness, youth. Youth. For all of her newfound maturity, Lindsey was still young, which was probably the reason she looked good after the taxing week she'd had. On the other hand, he was tired, his knee hurt, and he was in less than the greatest mood of his life knowing that he had to work the following afternoon even if it was Sunday. Without a secretary, he'd gotten behind.
"We'll have cake and coffee in the other room," Bunny said now that the meal was in its final stages. All evening she'd chattered like a magpie and flitted around like a hyperactive bee. She started to push back her chair again. "I think I'll put on the coffee, so it'll be ready when we are."
"Don't make coffee for me," Walker said. "I'll be up half the night if I drink caffeine this late. And I don't need any cake." He patted his stomach, which was plain flat and mean lean. "I'll have to do forty laps in the pool as it is to take off these three pieces of chicken."
"I don't want coffee, either, Mom," Lindsey said, placing the pitcher on the table and sitting back down. She glanced over at Walker. "You still swim regularly?"
"Yeah. At least I try to." He grinned. "The older I get, though, the more laps I have to do and the less results I see."
"Oh, I don't know," Lindsey said, "it looks like you're holding your own."
It was foolish, Walker knew, but her compliment—it was a compliment, wasn't it?—pleased him. It was nice to know that, at forty-seven, he hadn't fallen completely apart at the seams. Okay, so a few seams were unraveling, but that wasn't the same thing as falling apart.
"Are you sure about the coffee?" Bunny asked, obviously itching to do something. Anything.
Both Walker and Lindsey assured her that they were. They then talked about the oil business, the weather, Galveston tourism—everything but what was really on their minds. Once the meal was finished, Bunny had the perfect excuse to spring back into action.
"I'll load the dishwasher," she said, shoving back her chair and starting to scrape and stack the plates.
"Let me," Lindsey said. "You and Walker—"
"No, I can," Bunny protested, adding one plate to another as fast as her unsteady hands would allow.
She then reached for one of the tall crystal glasses beaded with cool condensation. No sooner had she picked it up than it slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. In one deafening crash, it shattered into two dozen pieces. The noise reverberated about the room like a gunshot. Bunny just stared, as though she couldn't believe what she was hearing, as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Slowly, with a frightening detachment, she squatted and began to silently gather up the pieces. One by one. With the greatest of care.
"Let me," Lindsey said, dropping to her mother's side.
The older woman disregarded her daughter—in truth, she didn't even seem to have heard her—and continued to pick up the shards of glass. "We bought these when we married," she said tonelessly. "They cost fifteen dollars apiece. That was a lot of money then. I bought one a month for eight months...."
"Mother, please move."
"All these years, I've never even chipped one...."
"Mother, please."
"I've been so careful...."
"It's only a glass," Lindsey said.
"It just slipped out of my hand...."
"Mother, watch it! You're going to... Ah, Mother, you cut yourself!"
As though it were beyond her capability to understand, Bunny stared at the drop of blood that had appeared on the pad of her thumb.
"I cut myself," she mumbled.
Lindsey looked up at Walker, silently asking for his help.
He squatted beside the woman who'd been like a sister to him. "C'mon, Bunny, let's go into the den." When she didn't acknowledge him in any way, but rather continued to watch the drop of blood grow larger and larger until it resembled a sad scarlet tear, Walker tipped her hand, forcing the glass to tumble downward again. "Put the glass on the floor, babe, and let's go get a Band-Aid. Okay?"
With Walker's assistance, Bunny rose and tonelessly announced, "I broke the glass."
"It doesn't matter," Walker assured her. "It's only a glass."
"We bought them when we married."
"I know."
From the doorway, he glanced back at Lindsey, who stood with the fragments scattered about her feet. She looked as if a sculptor had chiseled her face into a pose of concern.
"She's all right," Walker said quietly.
Ten minutes later, the glass cleared from the floor, the dishwasher loaded, Lindsey found her mother, a Band-Aid wrapped about her thumb, stretched out on the den sofa. She was sound asleep. Walker sat in the lounge chair, one leg negligently squared over the other. He held an empty shot glass.
"How did you get her to go to sleep?" Lindsey whispered.
Walker raised the glass and said in the same hushed tones, "Exhaustion and booze are a lethal combination."
"She doesn't look like she's slept all week," Lindsey remarked.
"I'm sure she hasn't."
"She is all right, isn't she?" Lindsey asked, suddenly, and desperately, needing some reassurance.
"She just needs to rest," Walker said, adding with half of a grin, "I think you could use a little rest yourself." Earlier he'd thought how unscathed she looked, how resilient youth was, but now he could clearly see that the stressful week had likewise taken its toll on her. She looked tired. Dog tired. Setting the glass down on the coffee table, he said as he rose, "I'm gonna get out of here and let you go to bed."
"What time is it?"
Walker checked the leather watch at his wrist. It was an old watch, one his wife had given him as a Christmas present, but old had a way of feeling familiar and comfortable. "Nine thirty-three."
Lindsey screwed up her face, as though trying to reason out a puzzle. "That makes it..." She sighed, as though the puzzle were too much for her to mentally negotiate in her fatigued state. "That makes it sometime tomorrow in London."
"Well, you need some sleep tonight," he said, starting for the door.
"I'll walk you out."
Bunny whimpered, a sound made in the throes of sleep, restless sleep.
Stepping forward, Lindsey grabbed an afghan from the back of a nearby chair and draped it across her mother. The gesture, Walker thought, was one of pure nurturing. It said warm and caring as only a woman could. Over the years, he had missed such tenderness—the sweetness, the gentleness, the lace and frills of the feminine gender. Of late, he seemed to miss it even more. Watching Lindsey now, he was acutely reminded of how empty he sometimes felt, of how long the after-work hours could be, of how blunt were the rough edges of his masculine life-style and how he sometimes ached for a woman's softness. Damn, he thought suddenly, he was getting old. Old and maudlin.
As he and Lindsey stepped outside, the summer heat swarmed about them, reminding them that August was a hostile month in the South. As if in compensation, however, gigantic stars glittered in bounteous plenty, while a slice of crescent moon, a shiny scythe of platinum, rode high in the black sky.
Silently, they headed for the car parked in the driveway. Despite the heat, Lindsey folded her arms about her, as though chilled from some unseen cold. Either that or she was merely holding herself together, Walker thought. Whichever, he longed to comfort her.
"She'll be okay," he said. "She's strong, stronger than even she realizes. Trust me, she'll rise to the occasion."
Lindsey glanced over at Walker. In heels, she stood almost eye-to-eye with him. Funny, he'd never realized just how tall she was. But then, without heels, she'd be considerably shorter, probably coming only to his chin.
"I never really thought much about women's lib," Lindsey said. "I grew up in the middle of it. I grew up reading and hearing about a woman's value. I guess I just took it for granted. You know, all that bit about a woman having her own identity, about a woman fulfilling her own needs, about a woman not being dependent on a man for her happiness. For the first time, I understand just how radical the movement was... at least for women of Mom's generation."
Keast, Karen Page 3