Walker knew exactly what Lindsey meant. "Your mom was from that generation—maybe the last generation here in America—where women aspired only to grow up to be wives and mothers. If a woman worked, it was usually just to put her husband through school. Then she'd quit work and start the family."
"There's nothing wrong with wanting to devote your life to being a wife and mother," Lindsey said. "Each, both, are full-time, honorable jobs, but it can be a deadly trap to fall into. If you don't develop your own identity somewhere along the way. And I'm afraid Mother didn't. She was content to be an extension of Dad."
They had reached the car. Both now leaned back against it. Walker crossed one ankle over the other. He grinned.
"I'll tell you a secret," he said, "if you promise not to tell your Sisters in Womanhood."
Lindsey grinned, and her eyes sparkled brilliantly. "I just love secrets."
"Well, this one could label me a traitor to my sex."
"And get you shot at sunrise?"
Walker thought the smile at her lips decidedly impish—irresistibly impish. He thought, too, that if he were to be shot at sunrise, her smile might be the last thing he requested to see. Somehow her enthusiasm for life had always had a way, a pleasant way, of drawing him in. "Yeah, it could get me shot at sunrise."
"Oh, great, then it is a good secret. Give."
"Men are odd creatures," he began.
"Ah, you've noticed," she interjected. The grin was back... if, indeed, it had ever left. She ran a hand beneath her hair and raised it from her neck. It lent to her impish illusion in a way Walker had no idea how to explain, except that it looked like a ponytail on a teenager. Where had the mature woman disappeared to?
"Do you want to hear this or not?" he asked, faking impatience.
"Yes. Men are odd creatures."
"Men are odd creatures," he repeated. "A part of them wants a woman's complete devotion. I guess that's the caveman part. While another part of them is fascinated by a woman with her own strong personality—her own wants and likes and interests. In fact, it's smothering, intimidating to have to give her your life in order for her to have one. Marriage should be a blending of two full, complete lives."
Lindsey was no longer smiling, but had grown serious. "I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to spread it around."
Walker grinned. "If this gets out, are you likely to be shot at sunrise?"
"No, but I'll be strung from the nearest tree."
"I can hardly wait."
"Women are strange creatures," she began. "While it's very important for a woman to fulfill her own needs, the truth of the matter is that nothing is quite as fulfilling as the right man in her life."
The kid had disappeared and the woman had reappeared. Walker wondered, as he had a hundred times before, what had led to the breakup of her marriage plans. Even so, even considering his closeness to Lindsey, a part of him could hardly believe he was asking what he was.
"I take it, then, that Ken wasn't the right man?"
He could tell that the question had caught Lindsey off balance. She didn't shy away, however. In fact, he felt her gaze intensify, until it seemed like a warm light penetrating him.
"No," she answered. Her steel-blue gaze continued to hold his for a fraction of a second before she quickly changed the subject. "Dad didn't have to stay on the rig, did he?"
Walker let the topic of her canceled marriage go, though, oddly, he hadn't particularly wanted to. While she had certainly answered his question, the simplicity of her response invited other questions, questions like: What had made her change her mind? Why had it taken her so long to realize that Ken was wrong for her? Why did he, Walker, have the feeling that something—some important something—was being left unsaid?
He focused his attention on the subject she'd raised. He considered sparing Lindsey's feelings and decided that he owed her the truth. "No, your dad didn't have to stay on the rig."
"He was just looking for an excuse to avoid seeing me, wasn't he?"
"Yes. That would be my guess." Before she could say anything, Walker said, "But try to understand his point of view. It's going to be difficult for him to face you. He's got to explain why he's hurting your mother and why he's hurting you." Walker sighed deeply. "Heaven only knows what I'd tell Adam if I were in your father's shoes."
"The truth is, though, that you wouldn't be in his shoes."
The comment was an interesting one, made as it was with the force of such certainty. "How can you be so sure?"
Lindsey shrugged. "I just know." She added suddenly, "No, I do know why I know. Loyalty is very important to you. You would never have betrayed your wedding vows by wanting to break them."
Walker thought of his wife and of the happy years they'd shared. The truth was that he couldn't imagine ever wanting to divorce Phyllis. Nor could he imagine why Lindsey's implicit faith in him should move him so. But it did. It made him feel... special was the only word that came to mind.
"Do you still miss her?"
The question came softly stealing through the still night. There was no need to clarify whom the question concerned. Walker cut his eyes to Lindsey. In the moon- lit darkness, it appeared that her eyes had been waiting for his. If he didn't know better, he might have believed that his answer was of monumental importance.
"I still miss her," he said at last, "but it's as if she were a dream I once had—a nice dream, but a dream. She no longer seems real." He thought of how he felt as though he was just going through the motions of life, as though something vibrant, something vital, was missing. That in mind, he added, though he was unsure why he was sharing something so intimate, "Only the emptiness she once filled seems real."
Walker would have sworn that Lindsey's eyes darkened. Was it possible that she, too, had an emptiness within her that needed filling?
"Phyllis was a very lucky lady," Lindsey said.
The world grew quiet, so quiet that one could almost hear the stars whispering in the heavens. Walker heard the silence, and in it the echo of Lindsey's remark. The kid had disappeared entirely, giving way to a full-grown woman. To a beautiful woman silhouetted in silver moonlight. Her transformation from woman to girl, from girl to woman, was intriguing.
And sexy.
He realized the inappropriateness of this last thought, but could not bring himself to deny the truth of it. He told himself that it was nothing personal, that is, nothing specifically aimed at Lindsey. It simply had to do with the vacillation from youth to adulthood and back again. The child-woman, the woman-child, had had its sensual appeal from time immemorial.
"I, uh, I should go in," Lindsey said.
"Yeah. You need some sleep."
"Yeah," she agreed. "Well, good night—" she pushed away from the car "—and thanks for everything. I mean it. I don't know what I would have done without you today."
As she spoke, Lindsey brought her hand to Walker's elbow. She touched it lightly, allowing her fingers to trail the length of his arm. For just a second, she took his hand in hers—palm to palm, skin to skin. She squeezed, meshing their fingers.
Walker could remember dozens of times over the years when he'd taken her hand in his, when she'd taken his hand in hers. What he couldn't remember was any one of those dozens of times feeling like this time. He could never remember such warmth. But then, she withdrew her hand. He was left only with the memory of their fingers clinging together. And like all memories, it paled by comparison to the real thing. Which was comforting, because it allowed him the luxury of negating what he'd felt. She'd simply taken his hand in hers. It was no big deal.
"Good night," Lindsey repeated.
"Good night," Walker said. He watched as she took one backward step, then another before starting for the house. At the door, she turned and waved. He waved back... with a hand that curiously still felt warm... despite the fact that all she'd done was to take his hand in hers.
Chapter Three
Bunny Ellison was still asleep. In fact, L
indsey thought she looked dead to the world. Only an occasional twitch told of the dream demons with whom she jousted. Needlessly rearranging the afghan about her mother, Lindsey sighed. She didn't know which was worse-dream demons or those that brazenly roamed the daylight hours. Whichever, she was tired of demons. She wanted to smile and feel it in her heart.
However, no smile danced across Lindsey's lips. Instead, she shut off the lamp and headed for the kitchen. There, she glanced around. The floor was devoid of broken glass, all of which had been discarded in the trash. She wished it were as easy to get rid of the memories of her mother gathering up the shards as though putting them back together would mend her marriage. The scene had frightened her. She'd never seen her mother out of control. She didn't want to see her that way again. Grabbing the wide-eyed teddy bear that Walker had given her, Lindsey turned off the light switch and walked down the hallway toward the back bedroom—her parents' bedroom—where the soft light from a single lamp glowed.
Placing the bear on the bedside table, she bent down before her suitcase, opened it, and rummaged through the contents until she found a cotton nightshirt with a smiling bear emblazoned beneath the question: Have You Given Someone A Bear Hug Today?
Walker rushed to mind.
Only minutes before, desperate to touch him, she'd briefly placed her hand in his. What she'd really wanted, though, was to be in his arms. But then, what was new? It was something that she'd wanted for so long now that she couldn't remember when she hadn't wanted it. Maybe the truth was that the wanting had started long before eighteen months ago, but that she had prudently kept it from herself. She was no longer hiding her feelings, however. At least not from herself. No longer would she treat her feelings for Walker as though they were something to be ashamed of. They weren't. She was in love with him, and love was never a shameful emotion. Neither did love count the years. Her heart couldn't care less that Walker was twenty-four years older than she. All her heart cared about was loving him.
It had taken courage for her to ask if he still missed his wife, but his answer had been her reward. She had feared that his never having remarried meant that he was clinging to memories of his dead wife. Obviously, that wasn't the case. Obviously, he just hadn't fallen in love again. Could he with her? She had absolutely no idea, not even a hint of a clue, but surely she owed it to herself to find out. Especially since he'd admitted to being as lonely— wasn't that what feeling empty was all about?—as she.
Slipping out of her clothes, Lindsey drew the nightshirt over her head and let it settle about her. It felt soft and cool against her bare skin—her back, her breasts, her buttocks. Unable to stop herself, she closed her eyes and imagined that it was Walker's hands caressing her. Like her love for him, she no longer censured the feelings that coursed through her. She no longer chastised herself for such sweet musings. How could you chastise yourself for something that felt more natural than breathing? Even so, she knew that such sweet musings could be torture. Because of that, she bridled her imagination and forced herself to the mundane task of brushing her teeth.
Afterward, she pulled back the spread and eased onto the side of the bed. She did not lie down. Instead, she splayed her hand against the smoothness of the sheet. This was her parents' bed. This was where she'd come when bad dreams had awakened her; this was where she'd come, bubbling with excitement, on Christmas morning to awaken her parents; this was where she'd come to tell her parents she was home from a date. There was something tragically wrong about this bed now being empty.
Standing, Lindsey picked up the teddy bear and walked from the room. She left the light on in the bedroom, as though her parents had just stepped out and would return any moment. Following the hallway, Lindsey turned on the light switch of her old bedroom. Hundreds of pairs of teddy-bear eyes, some of glass, others of antique buttons, met hers. Lindsey smiled amid the silent greetings she heard. Lovingly rearranging the stuffed animals on the bed—there were several expensive Steiff
bears made of mohair—she turned off the light and lay down among them. She still cradled the latest furry acquisition. It was warm. It was cuddly. It was also a poor substitute for the man she wished were in her arms.
A couple of miles away, Walker pulled the car into his driveway. As expected, the house was dark. Now that his son had flown from the nest, he could never quite grow used to returning to a dark house. He kept threatening to leave a light on, but if he did, he knew he would be admitting that the unwelcoming darkness bothered him. Which it did, but it was just another unspoken game that human beings were so adept at playing. Maybe he ought to get a dog. Naw, he wasn't home enough to do a pet justice. Of course the reason he wasn't home much was because he preferred to stay at the office or out on a rig or anywhere else for that matter. Anywhere that would keep him from returning to an empty, dark house.
The house was the same one he'd lived in with Phyllis. He'd seen no need to move after her death. In truth, moving had been the last thing he'd wanted to do. If the memories were painful, the memories had also been familiar. Something about the sameness had preserved what little sanity he'd had left. He had redecorated about two years ago, or rather had had someone do it for him, since he knew next to nothing about decorating. The decorator had worked her magic with colors she'd called sand, cream and cinnamon.
He'd also had a swimming pool built at the same time he'd remodeled. Sidetracking the house, it was to the swimming pool that he now headed via the outside gate. Not bothering with lights—in fact, they were the last thing he wanted for what he had in mind—he pocketed his car keys and started stripping his clothes at poolside. Yanking the knit shirt over his head, he wadded it up and tossed it at the nearby glass-topped table. His khaki pants, which he unzipped and shucked from his legs in seemingly one motion, he let fall where and as they chose. He kicked out of his shoes, peeled off his socks, and, hooking his thumb into the elastic waistband of his jockey shorts, pared the clingy fabric from his body.
His hot body.
His tired body.
His restless body.
Why did he feel so restless, so damned restless?
Not even attempting to find an answer, he dove into the pool. Hands above his head, he cut through the cool water, feeling his body's heat and weariness begin to dissipate. The restlessness remained, however. In an attempt to counteract it, he began to swim laps. He began to vigorously swim laps. Splashing his feet, grabbing fistfuls of water, he traveled from one end of the pool back to the other, then back again. Over and over until he lost count... until his muscles burned... until his lungs threatened to explode.
Bursting from the water, he levered himself onto the side of the pool. He shook his head, slinging water in a wide arc. A drop of moisture rolled from an eyelash and plopped onto his moist cheek. He swiped at it and took a deep breath. At the same time, he took stock of his body. His body heat had cooled, the weariness had eased into his muscles in a way that beckoned sleep. The restlessness, however, remained, making sleep frustratingly elusive. He should have gone ahead and had the caffeine, he thought in irritation, because it looked as if he was going to be awake anyway. Thinking. Worrying.
With Gerri gone, he was behind at work. The business had its fair share of jobs right now, which demanded a lot of time and attention. Then, too, he couldn't negate what was happening to his friends. Because he cared for them, the breakup of their marriage was a stress that spilled over into his life.
Lindsey.
An image of her flashed before him. An image of silky-soft blond hair. An image of sultry gray eyes. An image of a young woman upset by the crisis unfolding in her parents' lives. He would do anything to spare her, but he couldn't.
"Do you still miss her?"
He hadn't been expecting Lindsey's question about Phyllis. Any more than he'd been expecting his answer, but it had come easily enough, truthfully enough. He did still miss Phyllis, but it wasn't the kind of missing that tied his heart into knots. It just felt as if some part of him
had been removed... and that nothing, no one, had ever replaced that missing part. It just felt as if he were empty inside, waiting, wanting to be touched by some warmth.
Warmth.
The memory of Lindsey's hand in his came sweetly sweeping through his mind, his senses. Against all logic, he could feel his palm heating, as though it had been kissed by the noonday sun. He didn't understand the return of the memory; he didn't understand the power it held over him, though he clearly understood that the memory disturbed him. Greatly. So much so that he erased it from his mind and pushed to his feet. Bare, leaving his clothes where he'd discarded them, he walked toward house.
The dark, empty, lonely house.
The following Monday morning, the office telephone rang four times in as many minutes. Walker, who'd arrived promptly at seven o'clock—it was now four minutes after seven—reached once more for the receiver. The ringing stopped in midpeal.
"Gal-Tex," he said, thankful now that he'd come in the afternoon before.
Though he hadn't gotten near as much paperwork done as he'd hoped, he at least hadn't had to contend with telephone interruptions. Even so, he'd spent far too much of the Sunday afternoon wondering if Dean and Lindsey had gotten together—surely they had—and what had been said at the meeting. Telling himself that what went on between father and daughter was none of his business had done little to alleviate the wondering.
"Yeah," Walker now said into the phone, "I've got that information right here." As he spoke, he riffled through the thousand and one sheets of paper on his desk. Dammit! he thought, he had had the information right here yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. Or maybe it was on Gerri's desk. "Give me a sec, will ya?" he said, pushing the button that would temporarily disconnect him with the caller.
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