MM03 - Saturday Mornings

by Peggy Webb

  “You don't have to say things like that to make me feel better. I'm a grown woman. I know that men and women sleep together without being in love with each other.”

  “I told you: this is not about making love. It's about being in love.” He smiled at her again, and she almost believed him. “It took me a long time to discover that I loved you, Margaret Leigh.”

  She sat very still, not trusting herself to speak. She wanted desperately to believe him, but she also wanted to protect herself from any more pain. It had taken her twenty years to find out Bertha Adams had been lying. She couldn't bear to think of spending twenty years, or even twenty days, with Andrew, believing in his love, only to discover it had all been a lie.

  “That's why I followed you to Chicago. You are my love, Margaret Leigh. The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

  “I'm thirty-two years old, Andrew. And more than half my life has already been a lie.”

  “Bertha loves you, you know. She asked me to tell you that.” He paused, waiting for a response. Getting none, he continued. “Our life will not be built on lies. It will be built on love and trust and friendship and commitment.”

  She felt tears burn the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard. With her hands clenched tightly together, she faced him.

  “How can I ever believe you? How can I know the truth from lies again?”

  He started to rise, then sank back into the chair. He had promised not to touch her until she asked. And he would keep that promise.

  “I’ll make you believe, Margaret Leigh.”

  “Tess believed. Three times men pledged their love at the altar, till death do us part they all said. It wasn't true. Not any of the three times.”

  “I wish love came with guarantees, but it doesn't. Do you know anything in life that does?”

  “Refrigerators.”

  He smiled. “Yes, but will they sing love songs and cuddle in front the fire and take long walks in the woods?”

  “I think scientists are working on it.” She sobered. “Andrew, make me believe you love me.”

  “I will. I’ll take you dancing. We'll dance on the streets if you want to.” His face lit up as if he were a little boy watching his first launch to the moon. “We’ll go to Orchestra Hall to hear the Chicago Symphony. We'll picnic in Jackson Park and stroll down Michigan Avenue. You love animals. We’ll go to the zoo.”

  He stood up, waving his arms with enthusiasm as he talked of his courtship plans. “Tess has an open fireplace. We'll pop corn and rent movies and sing silly songs and tell foolish jokes. Or we’ll just sit on the sofa with our feet touching and read good books.” He gave her his most beguiling smile. “I’ll do anything for you, Margaret Leigh.”

  “You mean that, don't you?”

  He crossed to the bed and stood close enough to touch her. She could smell the scent of pines that was so much a part of him, and she could see the faint shadow of a beard because it was late and he had probably come to Chicago without taking the time to shave. She could see the shadings of gold in his hair and the way his eyes lit at the center when he was excited.

  “I pledge my life on it, Margaret Leigh.” He reached for her face, and when his hand was so close she could feel its warmth, he pulled back, keeping his promise. “I love you.”

  She wanted so desperately to believe him. But she didn't. She couldn't. Not yet anyhow.

  “If you love me, Andrew,” she paused, closing here eyes and praying for courage, “if you love me, go home.”

  He seemed to have stopped breathing. The animation faded from his face, and it became as cold and still as a corpse. Her heart beat frantically, and she wanted to reach out to him and pull him down to her breast and tell him she was sorry, she didn't mean a word she'd said. But the words hung between them, heavy and ugly, and she couldn't take them back.

  He straightened up.

  “Do you mean that, Margaret Leigh?”

  “Yes. If you love me, you'll go home.”

  “Did I imagine your response to my touch, pretty one?” His voice was soft and deadly. “Did I only dream the way your body turns to fire when I kiss you?”

  “It was no dream.” She twisted her hands together. “You elicit a passionate response from me.”

  “But not love?”

  She looked down at the carpet, saying nothing.

  “Look at me, Margaret Leigh. Look at me and tell me that you can never love me.”

  She couldn't. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as her gaze swung up to his. “You said you would do anything, Andrew.”

  “I made a promise, and I'll keep it.” He turned from her and strode across the room. In the doorway he stopped. Looking back, he said, “I'll keep that promise, but not forever. I won't stay away from you forever.”

  Her heart beat so hard, she could hear the hammering. “Andrew,” she whispered. But he was already gone.

  “I need time,” she said. “I can't possibly take on another life until I've straightened out my own. I don't even know who my father is.”

  But there was no one to hear her.

  Margaret Leigh was sitting on the end of the bed when Tess came back to the apartment.

  “He's already gone?” Tess flopped on the bed, plumped some pillows behind her back, and rested against the headboard. “I'm disappointed. He looked like the kind of man who wouldn't take no for an answer.”

  “I sent him back to Tupelo.” Margaret Leigh scooted up to the headboard and leaned back beside her sister.

  “And he went? Good Lord, and all this time I was thinking how much he reminded me of Flannigan. Flannigan would never have gone away.” Tess seemed to have forgotten that he had done just that.

  Margaret Leigh wasn't about to remind her. She was happy to change the subject.

  “How does he remind you of Flannigan?” Margaret Leigh momentarily forgot her own problems. Mick Flannigan had been Tess's first husband, the love of her life, she'd said the day of her wedding. In the ten years since their divorce, she'd never heard Tess mention him, until tonight.

  “They both have a wild streak. I’ll bet you anything Andrew McGill sunbathes naked.”

  “That's exactly what I thought when I first saw him.” Margaret Leigh's cheeks colored at the memory.

  “Don't you think that's absolutely delicious?”

  “I thought it was wicked.”

  “Hell, Maggy. Aunt Bertha knew less about men than any woman I've ever known. Everything she ever told us turned out to be wrong.” Tess was on her favorite subject, men. Relaxed and comfortable, she forgot to be cautious. “Shoot, she probably never had more than one man, and look what a mess she made.”

  Margaret Leigh drew in her breath, and Tess was immediately contrite. “I'm sorry. I forgot how upset you are by this whole mess.”

  Margaret Leigh closed her eyes a moment. “Don't be sorry. And don't think you have to pussyfoot around the subject of my illegitimacy. I'm a grown woman. It's time I faced the truth like one.”

  “That's a good start.” Tess reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “Tess, I have to talk to Aunt... oh, shoot, she's my mother and I don't even know what to call her.”

  “Stick with Aunt Bertha. That's sensible.”

  “You've always been able to take charge of things. Will you come home with me? Will you help me get through this?”

  “Give me two days to straighten things out at the club, then I'll leave with you.”

  Chapter Ten

  While Andrew's plane was delayed due to fog at Chicago's OHare International Airport, he brooded. Love wasn't easy. Heck, he'd known Margaret Leigh wouldn't just fall into his arms, but he'd never dreamed she'd send him away. He was an easy-going, likable sort of guy with his share of charm—or so he'd been told. Where was all that famous McGill charm when he needed it most? For that matter, where was his good sense when he needed it most? He'd had no business promising Margaret Leigh anything. He'd just have to think of a new plan. That
was all. Real courtship was new to him. But he'd learn, and he'd learn fast. He didn't intend to be without the woman he loved forever.

  o0o

  At ten a.m. Tess's intercom buzzed. It took Margaret Leigh a moment to remember that she was in Chicago and Andrew wasn't. She'd asked him to go the night before.

  She got off the sofa bed and padded into the bedroom to wake Tess.

  “Tess.” There was no response. Tess was spilled across the bed like a box of paints, her hair a splash of red on the pillow, silk gown a pool of purple, and one high-heeled slipper, hanging precariously from her toe, a bright sparkle of gold sequins.

  Margaret Leigh approached and shook her gently by the shoulder. “Tess. Wake up. Somebody's at your door.”

  Tess snuggled closer to her pillow, her breath rising and falling evenly in sleep. Margaret Leigh had forgotten that it took a ten-piece brass band to wake her sister.

  She went back into the den and fiddled with the intercom. She finally found the right button.

  “Who is it?”

  “Special delivery for apartment ten.”

  Somebody was sending Tess flowers. Fans, especially men, were always sending Tess flowers.

  “You can come up.”

  When he arrived at the door, the delivery man was almost hidden behind a huge bouquet of pink roses.

  “Flowers for Miss Jones.”

  “She's asleep. Can I sign?”

  “Right here.”

  Margaret Leigh signed for the flowers and carried them back into the apartment. They were fragile and beautiful and fragrant. They filled the whole place with romance.

  Tess appeared in the doorway, standing lopsided because she was still wearing only one slipper. She yawned and stretched like a satisfied lioness.

  “Was that somebody at the door?”

  “Flowers for you.”

  Tess buried her face in the roses and inhaled. Then she slipped the card from its envelope. “You can send me to Tupelo, but you can't send me away,” she read aloud. She looked at her sister, quirking one eyebrow upward. “Shall I go on? These are for you.” She turned the envelope over and read the name, confirming what she already knew. “Miss Margaret Leigh Jones.”

  Margaret Leigh ran across the room and took the card. Her hand shook as she read it. “My heart is with you in Chicago, and it will be with you wherever you are. All my love, Andrew.” She looked up at Tess. “He sent flowers.”

  “I can see that. Men in love often do.”

  “Do you think he really loves me, Tess?”

  “He'd be a fool not to.”

  “Nobody has ever sent me roses.”

  Margaret Leigh pressed her face against the flower petals to hide her tears.

  Margaret Leigh received a fresh bouquet of roses every day for the next three days. And when she and Tess arrived in Tupelo, a bouquet was waiting for her at her house on Allen Street.

  “Did you tell him we were coming home, Tess?”

  “No. I believe in letting love take its natural course. He must have inside sources.”

  They both looked at Aunt Bertha, and she gave an innocent shrug.

  “I told you, you can't trust men in leather jackets.” Bertha turned away before they could see her smile. “Why don't we have a nice cup of hot tea? There are many things we need to talk about, and I've always found talking easier over a friendly cup of tea.” She looked to Margaret Leigh for confirmation.

  “Yes. We need to talk.” Margaret Leigh hesitated, then went to her mother and put an arm around her shoulders. “The three of us will talk... just the way a family should.”

  o0o

  For three days after Margaret Leigh came home, Andrew courted from a distance. Every day he sent a small gift—flowers, a box of chocolates, a carousel music box. He gave her time to make peace with her mother; he loved her from a distance.

  And on the fourth day he went courting.

  Margaret Leigh was in the kitchen baking gingerbread when the doorbell rang.

  “Will you get that Tess?”

  There was no answer, and then Margaret Leigh remembered that Tess and Bertha had gone to visit Aunt Grace.

  “Just a minute.” She washed the dough off her hands and smoothed back a strand of hair that had slipped from its pin. “Coming.”

  Andrew McGill stood on her front porch, the setting sun framing him with splendor. She caught her breath, and stood clutching the door frame.

  “Hello, Margaret Leigh.”

  “Andrew...”

  “May I come in?” She couldn't seem to force any words around the huge lump in her throat. “I'll take that as a yes.”

  She backed up as Andrew came into the narrow hallway.

  “Don't worry, my sweet. I'm still keeping my promise not to touch you until you want me to.”

  He came so close that he might as well have been touching her. She could feel his body heat. It seared her from her throat all the way down to her thighs.

  “Thank you, Andrew.” Her thanks were heartfelt. If he hadn't been keeping that promise, if he had put so much as a finger on her cheek, she'd have taken him by the hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom. She'd have pulled him down onto her brass bed with the crocheted coverlet and begged him to make her feel the music of love again. And damned the consequences.

  But that wasn't sensible. She was finished with impulse. No more running from problems. No more trying to deny the truth with matters of the flesh. And the truth was, she loved Andrew McGill, but she was terrified of loving and losing. The way Tess had. The way Bertha had.

  She gathered courage by pressing her hands together and tilting up her chin. “Won't you come into the kitchen? I'm making gingerbread.”

  “My mother makes gingerbread.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Hmmm. Smells good. I could eat about fifty gingerbread boys.”

  “Fifty?” She loved it when Andrew made her laugh.

  “Maybe I exaggerated a little. Maybe I can eat only ten.”

  “You make me glad I baked gingerbread.” She backed against the counter for support.

  “You make me glad I came.” He came close again, so close she could see the golden lights in the center of his eyes. His breath fanned her cheek as he bent down. “Do you know how fetching you look with gingerbread on your face?”

  “It's on my face?” She brought both hands to her cheeks. “Where?”

  His hand reached out, but he stopped just short of touching her chin. “There.” She wiped at the spot, and he pointed to her right cheek. “And there.” She rubbed her cheek. “And there.” His hand hovered just over her lips.

  She circled her lips with her tongue.

  “Don't tempt me like that, Margaret Leigh.”

  “Like what?” Her question was totally innocent.

  “With your tongue. You make me want to eat you.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and she pressed back against the counter.

  “Don't worry, sweet. I won't. Not yet, anyhow.” He left her quickly, before he yielded to temptation. The chair he straddled offered a little protection, but not much. Having only a spindly piece of wood between him and the woman he wanted was a dangerous situation.

  “Let me get you some gingerbread. The first batch is still hot.” Margaret Leigh was glad for something to do. She knew about baking and serving gingerbread; she didn't know a thing about handling a man like Andrew McGill.

  Her hand trembled when she handed him the plate.

  Keeping his promise took tremendous will power. “Love is nothing to be afraid of, Margaret Leigh.”

  “I'm not afraid of you, Andrew.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Loving you.”

  His hand tightened on the fork. That was the first good news he'd heard, the first indication that Margaret Leigh might be his. “I'm going to show you a different side of love from the ones you've known. I'm going to show you love that goes beyond the physical, love that is almost spiritual, love that endures.”

/>   “How can you possibly do that?”

  “Do you trust me, Margaret Leigh?”

  She sat in a chair facing him before she answered. Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked directly into his eyes. “Believe it or not, you are the person I trust most in the world. You saved me from a horrible fate, even when I didn't want you to. You sent me lovely gifts, even though I never said I loved you.” She leaned forward. “Thank you for the gifts.”

  “You're more than welcome. It was my pleasure.”

  “And you've kept your promise not to touch me, even though it's obviously hard for you.”

  “It is. I believe in the power of touch.”

  “But more than all that, you gave me wise counsel. Because of you, Andrew, I've made peace with Bertha.”

  “I'm glad. She does love you.”

  “I know that now. While I still have a problem sometimes understanding why she gave me up and why she never told my father of my existence, I'm trying to live with it.”

  “She told you who your father is?”

  “She did, after Tess and I talked her into it. Even though he's dead, she still loves him enough to protect him.”

  Andrew waited, hoping she would share this part of her life with him.

  “He was a politician, a married senator from Georgia. They met when she was working in Washington. His name is Robert Graves Willingham. I am his only child, the child he never knew he had.” She pressed her fists hard against her thighs so she wouldn't tremble. “I wonder what would have happened if she had told him about me. I wonder if the three of us would have been a family.”

  “You can't control the past, Margaret Leigh, but you can control the future.”

  “I'm learning that.” She smiled at him. “Now, what are you going to show me about love?”

  “Tomorrow. At seven. I'll pick you up.” He popped the last bite of gingerbread in his mouth and stood up, putting the plate on the table behind him.

  “I'll be ready.” He started toward the door. She called softly, “Andrew.”

  He turned around. She smiled as she walked toward him. Then, reaching up, she ran her hand tenderly over his mouth. “You have crumbs.”

  Reluctant to break the contact, she kept her hand pressed over his mouth. He kissed her fingertips, lingering over them, moistening them with his tongue, taking the remnants of dough she had failed to wash away and savoring the peculiar sweetness of her skin.