She snatched her hand away from his, smarting from his unfair attack. “I can’t make all those feelings go away just because I—” Her first instinct had been to say just because I love you, but she knew that wasn’t possible. Was it?
The silence lengthened until Drew prompted her. “Just because you what?”
“Just because I slept with you,” she said lamely. “I can’t help the way I feel, and last night didn’t change anything.”
“Then it must have meant a hell of a lot less to you than it did to me,” he said angrily.
“You know what I mean. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Drew. Not this morning. It—hurts.” She touched his arm with tentative fingers but he shrugged them off.
“Does it?” His voice was cold and bitter. “I’ll tell you what hurts me. Holding you, making love to you, and then realizing, when it’s all said and done, that you’ll never let it go any further than that.”
“That’s not true. You promised me last night you’d give me time—”
“You’ve had ten years, Ann. Ten long damned years. If you really wanted to be with me, you’d walk out that door with me right now and not look back at this place. I’m willing to do that for you, right now, this minute. We could go anywhere in the world you wanted to and start fresh. But you can’t do that, can you? Can you?”
She met his eyes for a moment, then dropped her gaze. “No. Because I don’t have a right to be with you.” The words were whispered into the charged tension of her bedroom.
“What kind of crazy talk is that?” Drew asked, scowling down at her in exasperation.
“It’s not crazy,” she said defensively. “Everything I’ve ever wanted I found last night with you. I used to lie awake at night, after you and Aiden were married, wishing that it was me you were holding, me you were loving. I wished for that long and hard with no thought or concern for anyone else. And some of those wishes came true.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I wished so hard for things to change so that you and I could be together again. I wished that Aiden—” She broke off as her eyes closed briefly. “When I heard about her miscarriage, do you know what my first reaction was? I thought `Now he can come back to me.’ Do you know what that did to me, when I realized what I’d been thinking? I felt so guilty, like some kind of an unfeeling monster.”
“Wishing for something doesn’t make it come true,” Drew said bitterly. “If it did, you and I would have been together a long time ago. What you felt was a perfectly normal reaction. Beating yourself up over it all these years isn’t. Ann, you have to let go of all that—”
“She was my sister!” Ann burst out.
“And your sister was no saint! She didn’t deserve this martyrdom you seem intent on forcing upon her.” Drew stopped and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice sounded strained, as though he had to work very hard to keep it controlled. “Aiden made her own choices. What happened to her happened because she wanted it to happen, because she made it happen.”
He got up and paced the room, his fingers plowing deep ridges in the dark gold of his hair. He spun back around to face her, his expression grim and resolved. “Aiden didn’t have a miscarriage, Ann. She had an abortion.”
Ann lifted her horrified gaze to his, as if seeking a denial. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered, her fingers against her lips. “Why would she do that?”
His tone had gone flat, unemotional, as if what he was saying didn’t matter at all. Or as if he’d said it before, over and over again in his mind. “I found out several months later. She took great pleasure in telling me that the baby wasn’t mine and that she’d tricked me into marrying her. She laughed about it, as though it were a huge joke.”
A heavy, ominous silence shrouded the room like a shadow creeping across the light.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Ann said at last, almost to herself. “Why would she do that? She knew I loved you—”
“That’s why she did it. You were always blind to a lot of her faults—you and your father both. He claimed she was willful and high-spirited, but what she was was a cold, calculating bi—” He broke off suddenly, as though aware of going too far. He paused for a moment, then looked back at Ann. “Why do you think she always talked you into wearing your hair short? Because her long hair attracted more attention that way. Why do you think she always picked the most flattering colors and fashions to wear for herself, telling you they weren’t your style? She couldn’t stand for you to get any of the attention, and you let her get away with it. You wore those plain clothes, you cut off your beautiful hair because Aiden expected you to.
“Aiden controlled and manipulated you, Ann, and your father let her. Hell, he was just as bad. He expected you to take care of Aiden, keep her in line when he couldn’t or when he didn’t want to be bothered with either of you. You’re staying out here in a house that’s crumbling around you because he laid a guilt trip on you before he died.”
“Stop it!” Ann cried, putting her hands to her ears. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I wouldn’t expect you to understand about loyalty—”
“Loyalty? This isn’t loyalty, it’s an obsession with you! That’s why you refuse to face the truth, and the truth is Aiden used you, she used us both. She did everything she could to keep us apart because she couldn’t stand to think of you having something she couldn’t have.”
“And if you’d really loved me, nothing she said would have kept us apart! The fact remains that you were with her when you professed to love me. Don’t put all the blame on her just to ease your conscience or my guilt. That only makes it worse. You and Aiden were divorced seven years before you came back here, Drew. Seven years. I can’t help but ask myself, why now? Why now and not a year ago, or five years ago?”
His eyes narrowed on her. “What are you saying?”
She took a painful swallow as his eyes chilled her with foreboding. “Your company wants my land. You need my council vote.”
He stared at her for a moment as the implication of her words dawned on his face. “Your estimation of me must be pretty low if you could think that,” Drew said coldly, pivoting toward the window. His eyes were distant and bleak as he stared out at the dreary sky. “You’re never going to let go of the past, are you? You’ll never be able to trust me because that one mistake will always be there, undermining whatever we tried to build. I guess there’s nothing left to be said.”
He turned from the window and strode across the room toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Ann asked fearfully.
He stopped at the door and glared back at her. “I’m leaving. There’s no hope for us. You’re tearing me apart with your doubts and indecisions, your guilt and your fear. I’m getting out now, before I go crazy trying to make you forget a past you seem to find more fascinating than the future I have to offer you. I want to be with you, Ann, more than anything, but I won’t fight this battle every day of my life.”
Ann jumped up, wrapping the sheet around her as she faced him, her eyes blazing. “Now who’s running?” she taunted. “What did you expect, Drew? That you could just waltz blithely back into my life and everything would be forgotten and forgiven? You think you can claim Aiden tricked you and expect to be excused—”
“Why in God’s name do you have to keep bringing her into this? I’m getting damned tired of that, Ann. This is between you and me and no one else. I asked you once to come with me. I won’t ask you again.”
“Oh, an ultimatum now, is it?” Ann said scathingly. “All right, here’s one for you. If you walk out that door now, don’t ever expect to come back through it.”
He turned, his hand still on the knob as he stared at her for a long, silent moment. “Life’s for the living, Ann. It’s too bad for both of us you can’t see that.”
Twelve
Go after him! her mind screamed, but her legs refused to obey. Instead she sat down on the bed, weak and trembling
, as she heard the front door slam behind him with an awful, empty note of finality.
So it was over, she thought numbly, pushing back her hair with a shaking hand. The episode was finished. Drew was gone. She could get back to her nice, safe little life. She wouldn’t have to think about the past every time she looked into his eyes; she wouldn’t have to worry about who he saw every time he looked into hers. She could just get on with her life, existing day by day, drifting along as though this interlude had never happened.
She wouldn’t have to see his slow smile that sent shivers of sensuality spiraling through her. She wouldn’t have to feel the warmth of his arms around her nor the sweet, tormenting pressure of his body against hers. She would never again have to lay wrapped in the haven of his arms, secure and protected and...loved.
She wouldn’t cry, she told herself firmly, blinking back the stinging moisture gathering behind her lids. She hadn’t cried when her sister died. She hadn’t cried in years and years, and she wouldn’t do it now. She wouldn’t shed one single tear over Drew Maitland. Angels don’t cry, she reminded herself bitterly, hearing the words spoken in her father’s admonishing tones.
But the tears came faster than she could stem them. A storm of emotions, a flood of pent-up feelings, ten years of unshed tears. The sound of her own sobs, breaking the terrible silence of her bedroom, shocked her. She put her fist to her mouth, trying to stifle them, but it was no use. The cloud had burst, and even through her pain, Ann realized how wonderful it felt, cleansing and healing and long, long, overdue.
When the tears were finally spent, she got up from her bed, calm and resolved, as she went into the bathroom to shower and dress. As miserable as she felt, she couldn’t stay in bed all day, feeling sorry for herself. She had obligations. People were depending on her, she thought harshly as she brushed her hair vigorously, then twisted it up in its usual knot. She paused for a moment to stare at her reflection. Why do you think she always talked you into wearing your hair short?
Beautiful, clever Aiden whom Ann had always admired and adored until that one fateful night. Aiden, who had come between Ann and the man she loved, and had somehow managed to leave Ann carrying the burden of guilt....
She fixed herself a cup of coffee downstairs, then carrying it with her, prowled aimlessly through the house like a prisoner in his cell block. This house, her father’s house, was haunted by a thousand memories, and yet that was one of the reasons it was so hard to let go.
Life’s for the living, Ann. Like a drum beat, Drew’s taunting retort echoed through her mind. Finally, disgusted and distraught, she picked up her briefcase and fled the house, running from her thoughts and her memories.
* * *
“Come in, Ann,” Viola Pickles invited without a smile. “You’re a little early. No one else is here yet.”
The screen door closed with a screak behind Ann as she stepped into Viola’s tiny, redbrick house on Riverside Drive. She followed Viola into the living room and took a seat on the worn olive-green sofa while Viola excused herself to fetch the tea.
Ann’s eyes roamed the crowded room with avid curiosity. She’d never been in Viola’s home before, had never really given a thought to the dour little woman’s existence outside the classroom.
But as Ann gazed around now at the myriad framed photos clustered on every square inch of end tables and chests, at the dozens of identical, crocheted doilies, stiff and white and representing hours and hours of tedious, solitary stitching—it hit her suddenly that Viola Pickles was a lonely woman.
She had no family that Ann was aware of, but judging by the pictures, she must have had at one time. Ann picked up an oval, gilt frame from the table next to her and studied the young couple in the picture.
The man towered over the girl by a least a foot, his black hair sleek and gleaming, his dark eyes intense as he stared at the camera with wary regard. He wore a naval uniform and one arm was draped possessively over his companion’s shoulders.
But it was the girl who captured Ann’s attention. Her cheeks and lips were hand-tinted a pale pink, while her eyes were a deep, deep blue, almost violet. Only a hint of a smile touched her lips, but there was an air of excitement about her, a subtle, mysterious glow.
Ann looked up from the picture to find Viola staring at her across the room. With a shock, Ann realized that behind those thick glasses, Viola’s eyes were deep blue, violet, the eyes of the woman in the photo.
Guiltily, Ann dropped her gaze to the picture in her hands. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said hastily. “This picture fascinated me. She’s—you, isn’t she?” Ann asked softly.
Viola set down the tray and came to sit beside Ann on the sofa, taking the photo from her hands.
“It was a long time ago,” she said, staring down at the picture, her voice devoid of emotion.
“You made a very handsome couple,” Ann said with a smile. “Who was he?”
“His name was Jonathan Albert Wilkerson. He was twenty-one years old when that picture was taken, and I was only seventeen. We’d just gotten married.”
Ann’s eyes widened in surprise. “I never knew you were married.”
“Few people do,” Viola admitted hesitantly, as though she were not used to talking about herself. “I’ll never forget the day we first met.” She blinked twice, as though she was trying to focus, but whether on the past or the present Ann wasn’t sure.
“It was August 12, 1943, and it was so hot that day you could see the steam rising from the sidewalks. I was in the front yard of this house—it was my parents’ house then—picking the last of the summer roses. I heard someone humming and I looked up to see Johnny strolling down the sidewalk as though he hadn’t a care, even though the whole world was at war and he was soon to be shipped out. I remember how blindingly white his uniform looked in the sunlight, and how he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me.
“It took us both that way,” Viola said softly, but her voice was still emotionless, her hands holding the picture steady. “He was stationed in Corpus Christi, and the very next weekend, he came back and we were married. A month later he was sent to Europe and I never saw him again. No one knew we were married, and it was a long time before I found out he’d been killed. A friend of his wrote to me about it. Johnny had told him all about me, he said.”
“I’m...sorry,” Ann said inadequately, not quite knowing the correct response.
“My parents never found out,” Viola continued without acknowledging Ann’s words. “I kept my maiden name, I stayed in this house with Mother and Father until they both died. I had nothing to remind me of Johnny except this picture.”
Nothing, Ann thought sadly, and yet so much more than that. With a devastating flash of insight, she saw all the long, lonely nights Viola must have spent, all the empty holidays, the birthdays that passed by in a blur as time marched relentlessly onward.
“You never remarried?” Ann asked softly.
“Oh, no. I never even considered it. Besides, I had my memories and my teaching. I’ve never minded living alone. You and I are a lot alike, I think. You have a fine sense of the past, Ann. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
Ann sat for a moment without responding, her gaze sweeping over Viola’s stern features, the creased mouth that never wore a smile, the deep frown lines across her forehead, the eyes that were without sparkle. Viola may have lived for the past, but it obviously hadn’t been a happy existence. Even when she talked about Johnny and the time in her life that must have been happy, there was no longer even a spark. She had lived her life for a memory that no longer even mattered.
And as Ann sat there seeing Viola as if for the first time, she suddenly saw herself, in ten years, then twenty, then thirty, growing older and more bitter with each passing year, and still imprisoned by a past that was only a dim remembrance. Life’s for the living.
The doorbell rang, drawing Ann from the future back to the present. Viola got up and set the picture down without a second glance as she
went to answer the door. Chattering like squirrels, the other ladies of the Historical Society all scurried in, greeting Ann heartily as they found seats.
“Girls, I’ve got a confession to make,” Bernice announced in her booming voice. “I was as dead set against Riverside Development as the rest of you, but I have to tell you, Drew Maitland has won me over and made me see the light. This development project is the best thing that could ever happen to Crossfield. I’m convinced of it.” She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms over her healthy bosom and regarded them all with a satisfied smile.
There was stunned silence for a moment, then everyone started talking at once. Viola wrapped her knuckles soundly against a wooden table, bringing the ladies to attention much as she would a classroom of rowdy twelve-year-olds.
“Why this sudden swing?” Viola asked pointedly as she directed her attention to Bernice. “Really, Bernice, you were always one to be taken in by a handsome face.”
While Viola bent over the tea tray and poured herself a cup, Bernice leaned toward Wilma, who was sitting next to Ann, and said in a loud whisper, “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”
Viola straightened, teacup in hand, her mouth set in a rigid, relentless line. “We can’t afford to lose perspective here. Crossfield has always been a nice, comfortable, safe little town. Riverside Development wants to change all that.”
“We’re stagnating in our own complacency,” Bernice retorted, taking two cookies from the tray and handing one to Wilma. “If you’d take the time to listen to Drew, you’d understand exactly what it is he’s proposing. Change is happening all around us, girls. If we’re not careful, all those noisy, smelly factories springing up along the interstate will move right alongside us without regard to past, present or future. Riverside Development will keep that from happening. Their plan will retain the natural beauty of our town and countryside while bringing in more revenue and more jobs. I’d think twice about it if I were you, Viola. All these houses along Riverside Drive will bring a hefty profit.”
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