by Lyn Cote
“Mr. Johnson.” Leigh shook his hand and took the seat in front of his desk.
“You have quite an impressive list of credits for your writing. You’re interested in finding a job with a newspaper or magazine, I see.”
“Yes, since I finished school,” Leigh recited the phrases she’d rehearsed mentally, “I’ve lived with an elderly aunt in San Francisco and have done—”
“Quite a bit of freelance writing there.” He looked up from the paper and stared at her.
She waited for him to go on, but he continued to stare at her. Finally, it began to make her uncomfortable. If he made a pass at her, she’d throw something at him. She prompted, “Mr. Johnson?”
He grinned. “I was just thinking that now that I’ve seen you, I would suggest that you make a career change. You could make much more as a model. My wife runs a modeling agency. Perhaps you would like to go there and—”
“No.” Leigh held up her hand. “I’m not interested in anything like that. I’m a writer, not a fashion model.”
“Well, you can make a living by writing, but you could make a fortune in modeling. Are you—”
Leigh slid forward on her seat. “Let me be very clear, Mr. Johnson. I came here for help with getting my resume in order,” she made her voice sharp and determined, “and to get a few interviews with papers and magazines. I am not interested in posing for a camera.” Grandma Chloe had been a model on Fifth Avenue in 1917, but that was when very few professions were open to women. Did this man actually expect her to turn her back on her education and model instead?
Mr. Johnson tapped her application on his desktop. “I see. In that case, I think our secretary has a rough draft of your resume done for you to approve, and I have three positions for which you can interview in the next few days. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes, just what I expected.” She gave him a measured smile. After Trent Kinnard, she had no patience with meaningless flattery or men who used it. She wanted to write, and who cared what a writer looked like?
He pressed a button on his intercom, and within minutes his secretary brought in the typed pages of her resume. Leigh looked them over and gave her approval.
“Now,” Johnson proceeded, “one of the journals you’ll be interviewing with is pretty stodgy, so don’t wear a miniskirt to the interview.”
Leigh gave the man a long look. “Don’t worry. I know how to handle an interview.” But the first man who makes a pass at me will he in serious danger… .
Three days later, Leigh sat on a chair in an editor’s office. She’d worn a new gray pantsuit and had pulled her hair back into a low ponytail.
The woman editor glanced over her resume one more time and then looked up. “Your credentials are quite good. I see that you’ve been active in politics. What do you think of the Equal Rights Amendment?”
Leigh hadn’t really made a decision on the topic. It sounded good, but was it really? “I think American women have been held back for generations,” she said diplomatically. “And that isn’t right.”
The editor nodded. “You realize that we’ve only been in business a little over a year. I can’t promise you that we’ll stay in business.” She gave Leigh a tight smile. “Publishing magazines is a touchy, uncertain way to make money. We aren’t The Saturday Evening Post.”
“I know.”
“Okay, then. The job’s yours—if you want it.”
Sudden fear snaked through Leigh. She’d never worked a real job. She’d only done freelance assignments over the past few years. Was she smart enough to do this? After that awful morning in Baltimore, she’d begun doubting herself. But this job would mean that she’d have a reason for getting up every morning. “Yes, I want it.” And I’ll do a good job if it kills me.
New York City, December 21, 1972
Leigh sat across from Shirley Chisholm, the first female African-American congresswoman—the first also to receive delegate votes for president in this year’s presidential race—at her Brooklyn office. Leigh had just finished jotting down Ms. Chisholm’s reply to her last question. Leigh looked up. “I want to thank you again, Ms. Chisholm, for giving me this interview. The readers of Women Today are definitely interested in helping more women get into politics and into Congress.”
Ms. Chisholm stood up and offered her hand. “When you first walked in and I saw you, I wondered if this was going to be a fluff piece. But you really did your homework on what I’ve been trying to do down in Washington. I apologize for assuming that such a pretty girl couldn’t do a good job. I’m afraid all of us are guilty of judging by appearances at times.”
Leigh smiled, accustomed to this kind of conversation. Thanking her again, Leigh shook Ms. Chisholm’s hand and then left. She didn’t tell the woman that in many ways, she’d reminded Leigh of Aunt Jerusha. What could Aunt Jerusha have accomplished if she’d been born a century later than she was?
At that, the germ of another article sprang to Leigh’s mind. Maybe she could interview Minnie Dawson and put that very question to her. Perhaps she could contrast Minnie’s life with her mother, Jerusha’s.
In the outer office, she sat down and took time to jot down this idea and then she stood up quickly. For a moment, everything wavered around her and she sat back down.
“Are you all right?” the secretary asked.
She couldn’t say, “I think I’m coming down with the flu”—not after just meeting with the congress woman. “No. Just all the holiday activities. I haven’t been getting enough sleep and haven’t eaten lunch today. Merry Christmas!”
The secretary wished her the same, and Leigh took the elevator down to the street, where she spotted a sign: “Women’s Clinic. WalkIns Welcome.”
Without any further thought, she entered the door. After a twenty-minute wait, she was ushered into a cubicle, and within another few minutes, she was joined by a woman doctor, the first she’d ever seen. “I hear you think you are coming down with the flu and don’t want to take it home with you for Christmas.”
“Yes, if I’m really going to be ill, I’ll just stay here. My grandmother and great-aunt are in their seventies. I don’t want to infect them with anything.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” The doctor shook down a thermometer and slipped it into Leigh’s mouth, and then while waiting, took her pulse and blood pressure.
“The flu has already hit here, or my nurse would be doing this. It’s slowed me down today.” She slipped the thermometer out and read it. “Your temperature isn’t elevated. What are your symptoms?”
“I’m lightheaded sometimes when I stand up too fast. I felt a bit queasy in the mornings over the past week and also sometimes when I pass a restaurant or sandwich shop and smell the food aromas.”
“When was the first day of your last period?”
Leigh gave the doctor a look. What has that got to do with the flu?But it was just easier to give her the information. She thought it over. “My last period was in late October.” Her own words surprised her a bit.
“Is it usual for you to miss a month?”
“No, I’m as regular as clockwork.” Apprehension buzzed inside Leigh.
“Your symptoms sound like pregnancy. Do you think you could be pregnant?”
Now shock burned through Leigh. Oh, no. I never gave that a thought. Am I insane or just totally brain-dead stupid? “Yes, I could be.” Each word she spoke swung back and hit her like a hammer stroke.
“Why don’t you give me a urine sample,” the doctor went on matter-of-factly, “and we can know by tomorrow if you are.
Leigh nodded and somehow made it through the rest of the appointment. She promised to call back after 1:00 p.m. the following day.
Outside again, she stood looking around as if she didn’t know where she was or what she had planned. Finally, it came to her. She needed to go back to her office and begin writing up the article while the interview was still fresh in her mind. But would she be able to put a word down? Pregnant, no, please, no.
/> The next day, she stayed home from the office. She’d just rented the apartment above Nancy’s, but she couldn’t move in until the first of January. She sat on Nancy’s green sofa beside the phone. On the TV, Concentration was on. She watched the players but couldn’t compete along with them today. It was as if her mind had taken a vacation. Brain failure must have started yesterday after visiting the clinic. This morning, she’d reread what she’d written yesterday afternoon and had ended by tearing it up.
Finally, the clock ticked over to 1:01 p.m. She dialed the clinic and asked about her test.
The receptionist transferred the call to the doctor from yesterday. “Miss Sinclair?”
“Yes?” Leigh’s voice sounded like a croak. She cleared her throat. “Have you gotten back the test results yet?”
“Yes, you are pregnant.”
Yes, you are pregnant.With those four words, Leigh’s world tilted on its axis.
“Miss Sinclair?”
Leigh suppressed the urge to retch. “Yes?”
“You will be due early in August. You should see an obstetrician and begin prenatal visits so you have a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby.”
A healthy baby. “Yes.”
“Would you like to come and see me about your options?”
I’m pregnant, and Trent’s married. “My options?” She tried to focus on the conversation.
“Well, I want to caution you about the risks of backstreet abortions. If this child is coming at a bad time for you, or if you and the father aren’t planning on marriage…”
Her mind repeated, “… a had time for you, or if you and the father aren’t planning on marriage…” Marriage. Oh, no.
“There is always the option of adoption,” the doctor went on as if discussing the weather. “There are many, many couples looking to adopt—”
“Thank you.” Unable to bear speaking about it one more second, Leigh hung up. She slumped as if boneless onto the sofa and lay there looking up at the ceiling. This can’t he real. I can’t he pregnant. I was only with him one time.
Her conscience taunted her in a smug tone, “It only takes one time.”
She’d just begun to move on with her career, with her life, to put the one-night affair behind her…
Her conscience sprang up to accuse her, “Make that your one-night stand.”
In pain and utter humiliation, Leigh closed her eyes. She’d been so naïve she hadn’t even thought about birth control and Trent must have assumed she was on the pill—like all his other women. The thought was a stinging lash to her heart. Pregnant. I thought no one would ever have to know. What do I do now?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
December 23, 1972
Leigh drove up the road to Ivy Manor, still feeling as if she’d been flattened by a truck and then dragged for a mile or two. The generations-old house looked like a Christmas card: a dusting of snow on its roof and over the hardy green ivy around the entrance, a large evergreen wreath with a bright crimson bow on the front door, and a lovely Christmas tree glowing in the front window. Woozy from too little sleep, Leigh tightened her self-control to the maximum. She wouldn’t ruin her grandmother’s holiday celebration with bad news. No one here needed to know she was pregnant.
Leigh parked her car in the large garage that had been the stables for the manor long ago. She was weak from crying, and carrying her luggage had never been more wearing. She passed the empty little cottage and the summer house on her way to the backdoor. Then the door swung open, and her grandmother was there with her arms open wide. “My darling! My sweet girl!”
The physical warmth from the house wafted into Leigh’s face, and the warmth of the welcome blew into her heart. She hurried forward. Dropping her luggage, she fell into her grandmother’s arms. She’d practiced what to say, to keep her sadness from her grandmother. She opened her mouth to recite her greeting and blurted out instead, “Grandma, I’m pregnant.” Then she burst into tears, sobbing against her grandmother’s soft shoulder.
Kitty was standing behind Chloe and heard Leigh’s wail and weeping. She closed her eyes. What had the poor child gotten herself into? “Bring her inside, Chloe,” Kitty instructed, knowing someone had to be strong at this moment. “She needs something hot to drink, and she needs to sit by the fire. Thank heaven Bette isn’t arriving until tomorrow.”
Chloe obeyed Kitty and drew Leigh into the house. Kitty dragged the luggage inside and shut the back door. Chloe’s housekeeper, Rose, was standing in the toasty kitchen at the stove, watching the timer. She was baking sugar cookies. From her expression, Kitty knew she’d overheard Leigh, also.
“Don’t worry, Miss Kitty,” Rose said with a grim expression. “What’s said in this house stays in this house.”
Kitty nodded. “Thank you. Would you put the kettle on for tea?” Rose assented, and Kitty went into the parlor. Chloe had Leigh sitting beside her on the loveseat near the hearth. To give Leigh time to compose herself, Kitty stopped to stir the coals and put kindling and a few more logs on the cozy fire. Flames danced up. She turned. “How far along are you?” she said in as businesslike a tone as she could manage.
Leigh looked up. “Almost two months.”
“Who’s the father?” Kitty sat down across from Chloe in the wingback chair. This scene brought back her own sad memories.
Leigh winced as if Kitty had slapped her. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t marry. He’s got a wife.” This admission brought on another gale of weeping.
Kitty absorbed this blow, knowing that this was worse, much worse, than what she’d thought. She’d hoped they’d just be planning a hurried wedding. But that was impossible unless… “Is it a happy marriage?”
“I don’t have a clue, and I don’t care.” Leigh’s voice rose, the beginning of hysteria.
Kitty fell silent while Chloe stroked Leigh’s long blonde hair, murmuring love phrases and kissing Leigh’s temple. Kitty let Chloe do her work. She was good at understanding and comforting. Much better than Kitty.
Finally, Kitty asked, “Do you want to tell us about it? I don’t see you having an affair with a married man. Didn’t you know?”
“No! I didn’t.” Leigh looked crestfallen. “He said… he said that everyone knew he was married. But I didn’t.” As if exhausted, Leigh rested her head on Chloe’s shoulder, almost panting from the exertion of weeping. “He didn’t wear a wedding band, and I didn’t think…”
Kitty nodded grimly. “We know, honey. You’re not the first one to find out too late…”
Chloe looked across the room at Kitty, obviously pleading with her for help. Chloe couldn’t address falling in love with a married man, but she knew that Kitty could.
Kitty looked inside herself at the old scars and wealth of regret. She possessed the awful experience that might help her very dear great-niece through this disastrous valley. She could only hope it would be enough. “Leigh, what do you intend to do? You aren’t thinking of an abortion, are you?”
Leigh sat up and looked at her. “The doctor wanted to warn me of the dangers of backstreet abortions… I can’t imagine doing that. It terrifies me. Then she said something about adoption. I don’t know if I could do that, either.” Leigh looked at Chloe. “But Uncle Jamie was adopted, and you adopted my uncle Thompson, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Chloe squeezed Leigh’s hand. “And he’s been such a blessing to us—to me. Especially now since Roarke’s gone and Rory’s living in Philadelphia.”
“But I don’t know if I can face going through a pregnancy alone,” Leigh said, weeping quietly, one hand over her eyes. “I feel so stupid. So alone.”
“You’re not alone, dear.” Chloe patted Leigh’s shoulder.
“That’s right, my dear,” Kitty said, drawing up her strength to reveal here and now what she hadn’t spoken of since 1931. “Your grandmother and I will help you. Just as Chloe and Roarke helped me when I got pregnant out of wedlock.”
Leigh stopped crying abruptly and stared at Kitty.
“Thank you, Kitty,” Chloe murmured.
“You had a baby?” Leigh said. “But…”
“I gave birth in California in 1931,” Kitty said in a grim voice, “and then brought my baby to Washington, D.C., to the same orphanage that Jamie had been adopted from. Your grandmother and my brother met me there and adopted my son as theirs.”
Leigh’s eyes widened. “Uncle Thompson is your son?”
At that moment, Rose stepped into the parlor with the tea tray in hand. For a few seconds, all four women froze in place. Then Rose reiterated in her calm way, “What’s said in this house stays in this house. Though I think most of Jerusha’s generation—black and white—figured it out for themselves. If the good Lord had wanted Thompson to look any more like a born McCaslin, He’d have had to stamp the name ‘McCaslin’ on the boy’s forehead.”
Kitty chuckled at this—in spite of the bottomless guilt and regret that still tugged at her, tortured her from time to time. If only times had been different, if only she had been different, wiser. But the past was dead and gone. The present was all she could affect. “Why don’t you take tea with us, Rose? Leigh needs all of our support now.”
“I brought four cups.” Rose grinned and then set the tray on the coffee table. She took the chair beside Kitty’s and began pouring and handing around the hot tea. “I can hear the oven buzzer from here. Don’t want to burn the cookies. Dory asked for them special.”
“Now start at the beginning, Leigh,” Kitty urged. “Tell us how this happened.”
The three of them listened to Leigh’s tearful recital of the facts of her one-night affair. “It doesn’t seem fair,” Kitty sighed.
“Who… who was Thompson’s father?” Leigh asked.