MM03 - Saturday Mornings

by Peggy Webb

  “Are you still thinking about it?”

  “Off and on.”

  “During one of your on times, ask me.”

  “All right.”

  She wished she had the courage to be bold, but she didn't. Instead she leaned back in her rocking chair, shifting her legs in order to break contact with him.

  He took her movement as a signal and stood up. Going back to the couch, he picked up his guitar.

  “If you can stay a while, I'll play a song for you.” He began to tune the instrument. “What do you like? Blues? Jazz? Classical?”

  “You can play classical guitar?”

  “Sort of.”

  He played the hauntingly beautiful Sonata in E Minor by Scarlatti. Margaret Leigh was enthralled. When the last chord had died away, she stared at him a moment, speechless.

  When she spoke, her voice was whispery with awe. “That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.”

  “Aw, shucks, ma'am.” Andrew gave a good imitation of shuffling his feet and acting modest, but she could tell he was pleased.

  “Why, Andrew, you could go on stage. You could record. You could leave all this behind.” Her arm swept wide to encompass his cabin with the plain wooden floors and the simple chintz curtain.

  “Why would I want to leave all this behind?”

  “You could really make something of yourself, Andrew.”

  “I consider myself a finished product. I have no intention of changing—for anybody.”

  The hard, cold edge to his voice stopped her. She glanced at his face. Gone was the happy, little-boy look. Gone was the eagerness to please her.

  “I'm sorry. I guess I got carried away.” She stood up. “If you'll let me check on Christine, I'll be going.”

  His first instinct was to let her go. Good riddance. He liked variety, but not complications. And she was definitely complicating his life. But there was a certain gentle gallantry in him that didn't want her to leave while there were bad feelings between them.

  “Don't go.” Andrew came to her, his bare feet padding on the floor and his guitar slapping his hip. “Not like this.”

  “Why should I stay?”

  “Because of my famous charm?”

  To her relief, his boyish smile was back.

  “I shouldn't have said that about you making something of yourself. It’s my upbringing, I guess. I come from a family who values achievement.” She squeezed her hands together. “It's none of my business if you want to live in the woods with bird dogs.”

  He went very still, then blinked once, his eyes an icy blue. “They are nicer than some people I know.”

  Tension squeezed Margaret Leigh's chest. Her head felt light.

  “I'll get your dog.” Andrew spun on his heels and left the room.

  She stood in his den mentally kicking herself. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, keeping time with her thumping heart. She looked around at his simple abode. It had a rugged sort of charm, like the man who lived there. The couch was old but serviceable, the rocking chair was battered, and the tables were plain and sturdy. The room had the uncluttered look of having been decorated by a man who disdained material possessions.

  Why on earth had she ever come? Because he had taken her dancing once and it had gone to her head?

  And whatever had prompted her to make that remark about his lack of ambition? It was true that he wouldn't fit in with her ambitious family, but he wasn't auditioning for the part.

  She had best see Christine and leave quickly, before she made a complete fool of herself.

  Andrew returned, bearing a sleepy Christine. He handed the dog to Margaret Leigh, careful not to make physical contact.

  Holding her dog next to her cheek, Margaret Leigh half turned so her back was to Andrew, but she could feel the heat of his gaze. It set prickles dancing along the back of her neck. Anxious to leave the charged atmosphere, she made her visit short.

  “Bye, Christine. Be good.” She kissed the poodle's nose and handed her back to Andrew. “Thanks for bringing her out.” She backed around the rocking chair. “Good-bye, Andrew.”

  “I don't suppose you're planning to kiss my nose too?” His words were teasing, but his voice was cold.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. With Andrew, she never quite knew what to say. She took the safe way by waving and making a quick exit.

  Andrew stood at his window and watched until her car had disappeared into the darkness. Christine wiggled and thumped her tail on his chest.

  “Before we got into that brawl, she'd halfway invited me to dinner.” He scratched the little dog's belly. “That's all I need—half an invitation.”

  He set Christine on the sofa and picked up the telephone. After three rings, his brother answered.

  “Rick, I need a favor.”

  “Can you speak up, Andrew? The boys are making more noise than your dogs.”

  In the background Andrew could hear the triplets yelling, playing cowboys and Indians, no doubt, maybe even scalping each other with rubber knives. He chuckled. Rick's boys were hellions.

  “There's going to be a family dinner in Tupelo. It could be Jones, but it might be Adams. Find out when and where.”

  “I don't have to do any sleuthing to tell you that. Everybody knows that Governor Ben Adams is coming to town tomorrow to see his family. Bel Air Center. Tomorrow night at seven.”

  “News like that takes a while to get to Boguefala Bottom.”

  “Any special reason you want to know?”

  “Yes. I need to prove something to a lady I know.”

  o0o

  When Andrew walked into the Bel Air Center at seven-fifteen on Monday evening, the first person he saw was Margaret Leigh. She was talking with Governor Ben Adams and his lovely wife. Andrew knew Kate Adams from her pictures in the paper. As the mayor of Saltillo, she was famous for juggling a political career and a marriage to the governor.

  But it was not the famous politicians who drew his attention; it was Margaret Leigh. She was dressed in a soft-looking red wool dress, and she was wearing her hair loose. He liked to think that was his influence.

  He quickly made his way through the crowd. Margaret Leigh had her back to him, still talking to the governor.

  “Hello, pretty one.”

  One hand flew to her cheek as she spun around. “Andrew. What in the world?”

  “I accepted your kind invitation.” He made his way into the circle, slid one arm around her waist, and shook Ben Adams's hand.

  “Hello, Governor Adams. Andrew McGill. Nice family you have.”

  “I think so.” Ben touched Kate's elbow. “Have you met my wife, Kate?”

  Margaret Leigh felt as if a circus with sixteen tigers and a full band had marched into the midst of the Adams family dinner. And one of those tigers had her in his grip. She was vividly aware of Andrew, of the heat and weight of his arm, of the size of him, of the fresh pine needles and sunshine smell of him, of the polished gold beauty of him. She wasn't aware of what he was saying, only of the way he charmed Ben and Kate Adams.

  “So, there's a governor in your family?”

  She came out of her trance and noticed that Ben and Kate had gone.

  “Yes. He's a third cousin. They have three children, Jane by her first marriage, then Ben, Jr., and Betsy.” She was chattering, but she couldn't seem to help herself. “Jane's at Vanderbilt School of Law now.”

  “Introduce me around, Margaret Leigh. I want to meet all the family achievers.”

  “You're still mad about what I said yesterday.”

  “I never get mad, Margaret Leigh. I just get even.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Clairvoyance. I have built-in radar that tracks you. My heart to yours.”

  He placed a palm over the front of her dress, right over her heart. It thudded heavily against his hand.

  “Remove your hand.”

  “You don't like it?” He grinned wickedly.

  �
�Everybody's looking.”

  “Then maybe we should give them something to look at.”

  He bent over and kissed her, in front of God and the entire Adams family. He didn't pull her into a tight embrace or try to hold her embarrassingly close, but he did kiss her thoroughly, moving his lips over hers until he had elicited a response. When she was beginning to forget the circumstances and enjoy the contact, he pulled away.

  Two distant cousins applauded. The rest of the family kept on talking.

  Margaret Leigh put a trembling hand over her lips. “What are you trying to do? Start a family scandal?”

  “My family doesn't consider kissing scandalous. I come from a family who values warmth and fun and spontaneity and happiness.”

  “Did you have to wait until tonight to tell me that? Why didn't you do it yesterday?”

  “I wanted witnesses. Revenge is no fun without witnesses.”

  “You're going to drive me to cuss, Andrew McGill.”

  “Go ahead, Margaret Leigh. I don't think you'll scandalize anybody.”

  “Hell.”

  “Bravo. That's a beginning.”

  She drew herself up to her full height and looked him straight in the eye.

  “I consider myself a finished product, Andrew McGill. I don't need you to make me over.”

  “Guilty.” His eyes crinkled with laughter. “I guess we're both guilty. From the minute I set eyes on you, I've tried to make you over.”

  “At least you're honest.”

  “So are you. Brave, too. Not every woman can hold out against the famous McGill charm.”

  “I guess I'm not like every woman.”

  He studied her a long time, talking in the proud tilt of her chin, her unwavering stare, the genuine goodness she wore like a second skin.

  “No, you're not, Margaret Leigh.” He tipped her chin up with one finger. “I think you're kind of special.”

  “No man has ever said that to me before.”

  “I'm glad I was your first.”

  She blushed. He held onto her chin a moment longer, drawing his thumb over her soft lower lip.

  “I got what I came for. Whoever said 'Revenge is sweet' is right. It was mighty sweet, pretty one.” He released her and took a step back. “I guess I'll be going, unless you want to invite me to stay for dinner.”

  “Stay for dinner, Andrew.”

  “That's a great idea, Margaret Leigh. I'm glad you thought of it.”

  o0o

  Margaret Leigh watched him all through dinner. He had Aunt Bertha simpering and Aunt Grace giggling. He was funny when he wanted to be and serious when he needed to be. He did more than hold his own with her distant cousins who had distinguished themselves in the fields of medicine, law, and education: He shone. He was quick-witted, well read, and versatile.

  Her face burned when she thought of labeling him as a man who lived in the woods with his dogs. A simple life didn't mean a simple mind.

  Shortly after the meal, he took his leave. Margaret Leigh walked him to the double glass doors of the center.

  “I'm glad you came, Andrew. I don't like to have misunderstandings... with anyone.”

  “Neither do I.” He reached out and slid his knuckles gently down the side of her face. “Take care, pretty one.”

  She stood at the door watching him. He was only a large shadow in the dark, but she watched anyway. Then she turned slowly and went toward the bathroom, wondering if she'd ever see him again.

  Of course, she'd see him when she picked up Christine, but that was different. Would he ask her to dance again? Would he linger on her front porch with his eyes of blue diamonds and his touch like flames?

  She guessed not. Not only were they opposites in every way, they had hurt each other. And hurts were sometimes hard to heal.

  She slipped into the bathroom stall and shut the door.

  “Did you see that gorgeous hunk?”

  Margaret Leigh recognized the voice coming from the stall next to hers. It was her third cousin, Suelynn Adams Green. She had two major achievements in life—being born with blond hair and marrying well. Her husband, Mack Green, was a surgeon.

  “Good Lord, yes. What does a man like that see in a mousy little thing like Margaret Leigh?”

  The other speaker was Glenny Adams, known among the clan as Jaws—sharp-tongued and vicious and vainglorious over being the daughter of the best criminal attorney in Mississippi.

  Margaret Leigh stood very still. She didn't want to eavesdrop, but neither did she want to embarrass them and herself by making her presence known.

  “It's a pity she doesn't look more like Tess. Now, there's a real beauty.”

  “My dear, don't you know the family secret?” Glenny paused to give her a braying laugh. “They're not sisters.”

  Blood roared in Margaret Leigh's ears, shutting out all sound. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she leaned over the toilet, heaving silently. The green enamel on the walls swam before her eyes, and she knelt, gripping the edges of the toilet bowl.

  “I will not faint,” she whispered. “I will not faint.”

  Outside the stall she heard flushing toilets and clicking high heels. Then the banging of the bathroom door.

  She stood up to leave, pressing her hands over her ears to shut out the hateful conversation.

  Her legs went rubbery, and she sank onto the toilet seat. They're not sisters. The words ripped through her again, tearing out her heart, her spirit, her will. She huddled there, head on her knees, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She feared if she moved she would break.

  Time dissolved. She let herself float in the void.

  “Margaret Leigh.” It was Aunt Bertha, banging the toilet door behind her. “Margaret Leigh, honey. Are you in here?”

  Margaret Leigh didn't have the energy to move. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out all sound.

  “Grace said you came in here about thirty minutes ago.” Aunt Bertha got down on her arthritic old knees and peeped under the stalls. She saw her niece's shoes. “Come on out, honey.”

  Margaret Leigh rose slowly and pushed open the door. She didn't even know if she had any right to call the woman in front of her aunt.

  “Good Lord. You're as white as a sheet. Are you sick?”

  “Yes.” She took her aunt's arm, as much for support as anything. “Let's go home.”

  “Let me get my purse.”

  o0o

  They drove home in silence. In the dim light of the dashboard, Margaret Leigh felt pinched and drawn, fifteen years older than she was.

  Habit carried her through. Habit helped her park the car, walk up the porch steps, and unlock her door. Out of habit she went into the den, turned on a lamp, and found a chair.

  Aunt Bertha hovered in the doorway, anxious and frightened. “Maybe you should go to bed, honey.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Aunt Bertha twisted her hands together. “You probably ate something that made you sick.”

  “No, I heard something that made me sick.”

  Margaret Leigh lifted her head and looked at her aunt with huge, stricken eyes.

  “Is Tess my sister?”

  Aunt Bertha went pale. She pressed one trembling hand over her heart and caught the doorsill with the other.

  Margaret Leigh squeezed her thighs together and pressed her arms hard against her side. Fear filled her.

  “Is Tess my sister?” she repeated. “Is she?” The sound of her own voice was harsh in her ears. She seemed to float out of her own body and look down on the rising hysteria of the woman huddled below her. “Is she?”

  “Oh, dear Lord in heaven. What have I done?”

  Aunt Bertha bowed her head and let the tears rain down her cheeks—tears of guilt, tears of sorrow, and finally, after years of carrying the heavy burden—tears of release.

  Chapter Five

  Margaret Leigh rose from her chair, feeling like a sleepwalker. She gripped her aunt's shoulders.

  “Aunt Bertha.
Look at me. I have to know.” She felt the shudder that ran through her aunt. “Is Tess my sister?”

  Aunt Bertha lifted her tear-stained face. “No.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down.

  The truth made Margaret Leigh stronger. She paced the room, charged with restless energy and the need to understand.

  “Why was it kept a secret? Adoption is no crime.”

  Aunt Bertha buried her face in her hands again and began to sob.

  “Aunt Bertha?” She stopped beside the sofa and turned to face her aunt. “I assume I'm adopted. Or was Tess? Is Tess adopted?”

  “No.” Slowly Aunt Bertha lifted her head. The truth was out. There was nothing to do but try and make Margaret Leigh understand. “You were the one. You were the one born out of wedlock, born in secret and given to Margaret to raise as her own... She loved you. She was a good mother. You had a good home.”

  All the words Margaret Leigh was hearing sank in. Born in secret. Given to Margaret. The fear rose up again, threatening to smother her.

  “Why was I born in secret, Aunt Bertha? Why was I given away?”

  “You have to understand, Margaret Leigh. He was married.”

  Aunt Bertha started sobbing again.

  Margaret Leigh sank onto the sofa. The truth hung over the room like an ugly pall. Everything she'd believed in had crumbled at her feet. Everything she had lived was a lie.

  “Who is my mother?”

  Aunt Bertha cried louder.

  “Aunt Bertha.” Margaret Leigh rose from the sofa, gripping the arms for support. “Who is my mother?”

  A shudder went through Aunt Bertha. When she lifted her face, Margaret Leigh saw the truth.

  “I am.”

  The words exploded inside Margaret Leigh. Aunt Bertha, who had preached virtue and goodness, who had railed against scoundrels and sin. Aunt Bertha, who had brought her up to be almost an ice maiden—Aunt Bertha was not her aunt at all. Aunt Bertha was her mother.

  Rage came on the heels of shock. Margaret Leigh threw back her shoulders like a soldier going into battle. Then she marched from the room.

  “Margaret Leigh,” Bertha called after her. “Where are you going?”

  “I'm going to sin.”

  “Wait. Let me explain.”