“You’re very pretty, Miss Jennings,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Have I told you that before?”
She swallowed. Yes, she mouthed, although no sound came out.
He kissed her, right there on the landing. It was a chaste kiss, a mere brushing of lips, almost too brief to notice, and yet she was exploding inside.
This had to be love.
What else could it be?
It was after nine o’clock before Claire cleared the table. Dinner had gone mostly uneaten.
“Want me to do the dishes, Mom?” Mike asked as he followed her into the kitchen.
“No, sweetheart. It’s time you were in bed. School tomorrow.”
He touched her arm. “Dad’s okay.”
“I know.” She forced a shaky smile. “He always forgets to look at his watch, doesn’t he?”
Mike’s smile was as artificial as hers. “Sure does. All the time.”
Claire kissed his cheek and gave him a gentle push out of the kitchen. “Go on now. I’ll load the dishwasher, and then I’ll be in to tell you good night.”
Without a word of protest, he obeyed.
As soon as Mike left the room, Claire went to the window and stared out at the dark street.
What if something had happened to Dave? What if he’d fallen on a job somewhere and no one knew it? Claire wouldn’t even know whom to call. He hadn’t told her where he was working. What if it was a new construction instead of a remodel? What if he was lying in some unfinished house in an empty subdivision and nobody found him until a crew arrived in the morning? Or what if there’d been an accident while he was driving home? What if his truck had been hit by another vehicle? What if they couldn’t find his wallet before they took him to the hospital? What if—
Calm down. Stop it.
It wasn’t as if he’d never failed to come straight home from work before. There had been other nights when he’d stopped for a drink with friends and lost track of the time. She knew the likelihood was small that he was injured and helpless.
She hated giving in to her fears, hated the feeling of helplessness, of weakness in her own personality. Dave hated it too.
“Come home. Don’t do this to me.”
Claire wiped away the tears that had spilled onto her cheeks.
“He’s fine,” she berated herself, “and I’m not going to say a thing to him about this when he gets home. Not one word. So help me, I won’t.”
Sniffing, determined not to cry anymore, she returned to the kitchen. Quickly, she tossed the wasted food into the trash, rinsed the plates, and put them one by one into the dishwasher. Within minutes, all traces of dinner had vanished, the countertops were wiped clean, the dishwasher was whirring away, and Claire had brought her tears under control.
By the time she reached Mike’s room, he was already in bed, his light off. But he wasn’t asleep.
“What if something has happened to Dad?” His question was an echo of her own.
She sat on the edge of his bed. “Your dad is okay. I’m sure of it. Don’t worry about him.”
“Well, if he’s not hurt, how come he does this stuff to you? How come he has to make you cry?”
“He doesn’t mean to. Grown-ups aren’t perfect. We make mistakes, just like kids.”
“He oughta be nicer to you.”
Her heart ached, and she didn’t know if it was more for herself or her son. “He loves us,” she answered softly. Then she ended the conversation by leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “Good night, honey.”
“Night.”
The greasy spoon, located east of the city, was noisy with conversations and loud music from the jukebox. Several couples played pool at tables set near the back, the women clad in tight jeans and short-cropped tops, the men looking like cowboys right out of an old black-and-white movie, complete with boots and Stetson hats. The air was filled with cigarette smoke and the scent of hot cooking oil. Old barn wood paneled the walls. The floor, stained and sticky with spilled beverages, was nothing but a concrete slab.
In the dim light of the restaurant, Sara watched Dave pour beer from a frosty pitcher into two glass mugs. It had been three hours since they’d eaten their dinners of deep-fried prawns and thick french fries, three hours of talking, laughing, and holding hands beneath the table, and still neither one them seemed ready to leave.
“I really shouldn’t have any more to drink,” she protested as he slid the mug across the marred surface of the table. “I’m feeling a little tipsy.” She didn’t mention that she was underage or that her parents would skin her alive if they knew she was drinking. There was no point in reminding him of their age difference.
“You’re not driving, Sara. Go ahead. It won’t hurt you.”
Not wanting to disappoint him, she lifted the mug and took a sip. She didn’t care for the taste of beer, but she wasn’t about to tell him that either. She wanted only to please.
He grinned, as if he understood her thoughts. Then he reached out and touched her lower lip with his index finger, wiping away a trace of moisture. The caress sent a shock wave through her body. His smile disappeared.
He leaned toward her. “I like what you do to me.”
She was held, mesmerized, by his gaze.
“I wasn’t expecting to ever feel like this, Sara.”
“Me neither.”
He kissed her, a different sort of kiss than the one they’d shared earlier. This one was unhurried, slow, and deep, as if he were savoring every moment, every taste, every sensation. This was the way a man falling in love kissed a woman. She was certain of it.
When their lips parted, Dave cleared his throat. “I’d better take you home. It’s getting late.”
She wished they didn’t have to leave, but she knew he was right. She had classes tomorrow. He had work.
He stood and held out his hand to help her out of the booth. He didn’t let go until they reached his pickup truck. Before he opened the door, he pulled her back into his arms and kissed her again, with more passion this time. The intensity half frightened her.
“I wish you didn’t have a roommate,” he whispered huskily in her ear.
Sara knew what he meant. She was a virgin — not an easy thing to be in this sexually permissive age — but she wasn’t a fool. She’d felt tempted before. She’d heard all the persuasive arguments of her teenage boyfriends. But her parents had drummed into her head from an early age the importance of waiting for love and marriage, and it hadn’t been terribly difficult to adhere to that teaching.
Until now.
Was it really so important? she wondered as she looked into Dave’s eyes.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” he told her. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
The words caused her heart to soar.
“Come on. Let’s get you back to your apartment.”
Once in the cab of the pickup, Dave drew Sara over close to his side. As soon as they were on the highway headed toward town, the truck in fourth gear, he put his right arm over her shoulders. It seemed a safe and wonderful place to be; she wished she never had to leave it.
Neither one of them said a word until the truck came to a stop in front of Sara’s apartment building. With a twist of the key, the engine died. The silence of night surrounded them. The light of a waning moon turned the hood of the gray truck silver. Sara could hear the rapid beat of her heart. Or was it his heart she heard?
Dave’s arm tightened as he turned and kissed her temple. “What time do I need to pick you up on Friday?”
“We’re supposed to be there by six-thirty.”
“Then I’ll be here at six. Until then, I’ll be thinking about you all the time.”
Sara undressed in the dark, doing her best to be quiet.
“Forget it,” her roommate said from the corner of their shared bedroom. “I’m not asleep.”
“Sorry.”
Patti turned on the lamp beside her bed. She covered her mouth to hide a yawn, then
blinked sleepily. “You’re really falling hard for this guy, aren’t you?”
She shrugged, not sure she was ready to talk about it yet.
“Hey, remember me? It’s Patti. No romance escapes my notice, and you know it.”
Sara laughed softly. “Yes, I know it.”
“So?” She sat up on the bed, leaning her back against the wall. “Tell me all about him.”
“He’s … special.”
“Well, aren’t they all when you’re falling for them? That doesn’t tell me a thing. Come on. Give me particulars, Sara.”
“You mean besides the fact that he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life?” She assumed the duplicate position of Patti, hugged her legs to her chest with her arms, and rested her chin on her knees. She closed her eyes. His image came immediately to mind. “When Dave looks at me, I go all warm inside. Like I’m melting or something. He likes all kinds of sports. He used to play baseball back in high school. He was the pitcher. He has his own ski boat, and he said he’d teach me to water-ski this summer if I want him to. He doesn’t like cats, but he has a dog, a black lab, and he used to go hunting on horseback with a good friend of his. Which means he knows horses, at least a little. He’s smart. He went to U of I for a year but had to give it up for lack of money. He’s had his own carpentry business for the past ten years.” She paused, then added, “I like his laugh.”
Patti seemed to consider everything she’d been told before she asked, “Ever been married? He is over thirty, after all.”
“Yes. He’s got a little boy named Mikey whom he doesn’t get to see much because of his ex-wife. She must be an awful person, keeping a son and father apart. He doesn’t like to talk about it — I could tell by the look in his eyes when I asked him if he’d been married before.”
Her roommate frowned. “How long has he been on his own? You don’t want to get mixed up with some guy on the rebound.”
“I’m not sure.” What exactly had Dave said about that? His reply eluded her. “I got the feeling it’s been a long time. Years.”
“Sara … be careful.”
She remembered the way he’d kissed her. “Don’t worry, Patti. I know what I’m doing.”
Lying on the bed in the darkened bedroom, Claire heard the truck pull up next to the house.
Dave was home.
She opened her eyes and looked at the clock radio. The red glow of digital numbers stared back at her: eleven o’clock. Should she get up and go to meet him? Would it be better if she simply pretended to be asleep? But if he was hurt, if something was wrong …
She tossed aside the sheet and comforter, sat up, and reached for her robe at the same time she slid her feet into her slippers. She cinched the belt of the robe tight as she left the bedroom. She was nearly to the kitchen before she heard the back door click shut.
He was trying so hard not to make a sound.
She flipped the light switch.
In that first burst of light, Dave turned toward her, eyes wide with surprise. Then the surprise was gone, replaced by irritation.
“I didn’t expect you to still be up,” he said.
“I was worried when you didn’t call.”
“I’m not going to report in like some kid to his mommy.” He cursed. “I don’t need you mothering me. Mikey needs mothering. Not me.”
Beer and smoke. He reeked of both. She wanted to ask him where he’d been. She wanted to ask him whom he’d been with. She wanted to demand an explanation. She wanted him to hold her and tell her he loved her. What she didn’t want was to burst into tears, the very thing she felt close to doing.
He pointed at her. “Don’t start in on me, Claire. I mean it. A working man deserves a few hours of pleasure without being nagged.”
She couldn’t think of any reason for him to be acting this way. Hadn’t she been thinking, just last week, how perfect her life was? What had gone wrong? She felt as if a train had broadsided her.
“And don’t tell me we need to talk either,” he added, his voice dripping with disdain. “Talking’s the last thing I want to do.”
If he’d struck her, it couldn’t have hurt worse.
“I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” With that, he strode past her, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the kitchen.
It was just like a few years ago when she’d wondered if he —
No, she wouldn’t think about that. All marriages went through difficult periods. Whatever was bothering him would pass if she was patient. She merely had to let him know she loved him. She mustn’t nag or cry. She just had to wait it out.
They would be fine.
She turned off the kitchen light and made her way down the darkened hallway. A pale sliver of moonlight spilled across the bed, and she could see that Dave was already beneath the covers. He was lying with his back toward Claire. After dropping her robe onto a nearby chair, she slipped between the sheets, trying not to cause so much as a ripple in the mattress.
Hold me, Dave.
She turned her head on her pillow, gazing over at him. She wanted to speak her request aloud, but she couldn’t. He wanted her to leave him alone. She had to honor that request. She didn’t want to give him any more reason to be angry with her.
We’re going to be fine.
She rolled to her right side, feeling as if an ocean separated them instead of the intervening space on the queen-size mattress.
Sleep didn’t come for hours.
SIX
Friday was Claire’s day to volunteer at Mike’s school, her favorite part of every week. She’d first volunteered when her son started kindergarten and had continued through each grade of elementary school. Next year he would be in junior high, and she would no longer be needed.
But she tried not to think about that. She wasn’t ready for her son not to need her, not to want her around when he was with his friends. Thankfully, it hadn’t happened yet.
This afternoon, Mrs. Blackwell’s sixth-grade class was visiting the Boise Public Library, and Claire was trying to help keep track of thirty eleven-and twelve-year-old students. It was no simple task.
“Mrs. Porter?”
She glanced down at the freckled face of Teresa Dawson. “Yes, Teresa. What is it?”
“Would you show me again where to look for stuff in the card files?”
“Of course.” She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and the two of them walked to the bank of small file drawers filled with index cards. “What is it you need to find?”
“My report’s on how the pilgrims came to America.”
“Well, then, let’s start with the letter S for ships.”
Ten minutes later, Teresa had a list of books and their numbers written on a slip of scrap paper. Happily, she trundled off to find them.
“You have a way with children,” Mrs. Blackwell said as she stepped up beside Claire. “Have you ever considered becoming a teacher?”
“Me?” Claire laughed at the idea. “Heavens, no.”
“Maybe you should.”
She shook her head. “There’s no time for me to go to college. I work three mornings a week, and the rest of the time I’m busy taking care of my husband and son. Besides, I’m happy with things as they are.”
Happy with things as they are …
She frowned. Was that true?
Dave had been moody all week. One moment he seemed himself, but the next he was surly and out of sorts. He’d made it clear they weren’t going to discuss why he came home late on Monday, so Claire had let it drop. She didn’t want to add tension to the situation. She’d told herself it wasn’t important. And she must have been right—Dave had wanted to make love to her last night. If something were truly wrong between them, he wouldn’t have wanted to make love.
Would he?
“Mrs. Porter?” Teresa’s voice intruded on her unsettling thoughts. “I can’t find this one.” She handed the slip of paper to Claire. “Can you help me?”
She smiled at the child, g
lad for a reason to think of something else. “Let’s look together, shall we?” She took hold of the child’s hand.
“So what d’ya think, Mike?” John whispered. “D’ya think you could go?”
“I don’t know. My dad’s always sayin’ we don’t have the money to do stuff like this.”
“Yeah, but two weeks in Montana!”
Mike opened the glossy brochure again. Pine trees and lakes and horses made the camp look like paradise.
“Maybe you could get some jobs mowing lawns this summer to help pay for it. We wouldn’t go till August.” John punched him in the arm. “At least ask.”
If he went, that would leave his mom all alone. He hated to do that to her right now. She tried not to show it, but she was sad a lot of the time. She would miss him real bad if he was gone for a whole two weeks.
My dad wouldn’t miss me. That’s for sure. He didn’t like the way that thought made him feel.
“You gotta at least ask,” John persisted.
“Okay. When the time’s right, I’ll ask my mom. Just don’t count on me gettin’ to go, that’s all.”
Two hours later, with Mrs. Blackwell’s class safely returned to the school, Claire walked the half mile to her home. The brief cold snap that had blown in from the northwest earlier in the week had disappeared, and the weather was once again delightful.
Claire loved springtime, loved the budding of new life, the lawns turning from brown to green, the tulips pushing up to reveal the first bright colors of the year, the birds nesting in leafy trees, the calves and colts frolicking in pastures.
It had been a day much like this when Mike was born. Two weeks ago, the Porter family had celebrated Mike’s twelfth birthday, but the memory of the first time she’d held her son in her arms, all eight-pounds-four-ounces of him, was as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday.
In her mind’s eye, she saw her husband standing in the hospital room near her bed. Mike was no more than six hours old at the time. Dave looked surprised and a little dazed, like many new fathers. Her parents, George and Lisa Conway, were there, too, along with her younger brother, Harold. Her dad declared the baby the spitting image of Claire when she was born. Her mother merely smiled and tried to blink away tears of joy and relief. Fifteen-year-old Harold, bored and impatient with all the fuss and falderal about a baby, just wanted to get out of there.
The Forgiving Hour Page 4