by Mallory Rush
Rushing back to the boiling water, Mariah filled two cups and wished she could jump in there with them. Oh, this was worse than she'd imagined, and Sol, for all his good intentions, was doing a doozy of a job at alienating her family. She wouldn't have gone about it his way, not at all.
"Mariah! Baby, get your bu—self back here."
"Yes?" Mariah emerged with a smile stretched from one ear to the other. "What is it, Sol, uh, dear?"
"Are you of sound mind?" His gaze was leveled at Tom.
"Of course. My mind is in perfectly good working order."
"Are you unhappy with me, our life on this farm?"
"I couldn't be happier," she said with conviction. Reaching for Sol's hand, she clung to the strength they had won and that she desperately needed now.
"But would you be happier in medical school? Say, go back with these fine parents of yours, see me on holidays, then return here in a couple of years, since it shouldn't take you any longer than that to get your degree and hang your shingle."
Mariah looked from her father's glowering face to her mother's pale one to Sol's calm expression.
"Mariah," said her father firmly, "you surely can't turn away from what you were born for to settle for this man's limited vision and—"
"And, sweetheart, your daddy and myself, we both want you to be happy, but you must realize that you're still so young to be making these decisions. Go pack your things and we'll discuss this in Mobile tomorrow."
"Your mother's right," Tom said. "Nineteen is no age to turn your back on the world when the medical community can gain so much from your gift. That's selfish and immature, young lady. We raised you for more than this—this man who's older than your Uncle David and has the manners of a white-trash punk."
Mariah gaped at her father. Indignation rose so swiftly in her, she was momentarily speechless. To think she had been upset with Sol for his tactics, when it was her father who stooped to tasteless slurs.
"How dare you," she gritted out, her eyes snapping fire. "How dare you speak of my husband in those terms. Never, and I mean never say anything like that again. If you do, you can forget this daughter exists."
Sol took her hand and squeezed it. The gesture, she realized, was more than support. It was also silent applause. And then something else came to her. Sol had deliberately put her in the position of having to choose sides.
She chose.
"My mind is my own, and so is my life, whether you like it or not," she went on. "How I choose to live it might be of interest to you, but it's no longer your business. I love you. Mother and Daddy, but I love my husband as an adult, not a child. As a woman I'm responsible for my decisions, and my decision is to stay here, with Sol. I stand by his words—we decide our own future. Now you decide whether or not to be part of it."
"Of course we want to be, but your training, your exceptional talent—"
"Mariah, you can't just throw it all away—"
"Why don't you both just back off—"
"Stop it!" she shouted over their raised voices. "All of you. I've had it, don't you understand? This is my husband. This is my life. Sol and I are married and that's final." She stared them down, then said calmly, "Now, if you'll excuse me, the tea's brewed and LaVerne—Mom—is expecting us for dinner soon."
"Mom?" Nita said with a measure of hurt. "I am your mother, not some stranger you've recently met, Mariah Garnet."
"Standish, Mother. Mariah Standish, if you please, or even if you don't please. And I would thank you to remember that Mom has been more hospitable to me than any Southern hospitality committee ever thought about being. If you've got a problem with that, then I think it's time you drove back to the airport and we all get on with our separate lives."
Nita turned as if in slow motion to Tom, who appeared to be past coherent speech. Their state of shock was immensely gratifying to Mariah, at the same time as she was shocked at herself. And sorry that she hadn't set her foot down sooner. She just wished she hadn't had to hurt them in the process. They meant well, but were too accustomed to getting their way in what they perceived as her best interests.
"The tea, love?" Sol pulled her onto his lap in an overtly possessive and most improper display that was surprisingly more liberating than embarrassing. Then into her ear he whispered, "Bravo, baby. You skedaddle and I'll take it from here."
"Mariah," her father called as she veered triumphantly toward the kitchen, "I'll take that beer if it's still available."
"And while you're at it, dear," her mother added faintly, "could you forget the tea and make mine wine? Or better yet, a gimlet—maybe a double?"
*
"Bye, Mother and Daddy. Come see us soon!"
"The welcome mat's always out, Tom and Nita," Sol intoned. "Don't be strangers. And don't forget to send me Mariah's birth certificate."
The car backed up and Sol pulled Mariah closer while her parents waved a last farewell. She was still amazed by all the man-to-man handshaking and her mother's teary hugs and kisses. In all her years of living under the same roof with her parents, she'd never witnessed such gushing displays of affection.
"Whew," Sol muttered as soon as the car was out of sight. "That was one helluva coup we pulled off, kiddo. But you know them better than I do—think they left satisfied?"
"More satisfied than I dreamed possible," she said with a relieved sigh. "I never would have taken them on the way you did. They weren't the only ones with their jaws on the floor when you brought out the big guns and plunked me in the middle of the line of fire."
"Made you squirm, huh?" He squeezed her behind until she squirmed some more and batted at his hand.
"Squirm and want to crawl into a bottomless pit until they were gone and you quit behaving like a punk." With a sidelong glance at Sol, she broke into an ear-splitting grin.
"A punk on purpose. And you didn't crawl away. I'm always proud of you, Mariah, but I was never prouder than when you threw your lot in with me and stuck up for yourself. I didn't like putting you in that position, but I thought it best."
"Your way was best. If I had been handling it, we'd still be hedging around the real issues with nothing hashed out and our brains splitting from headaches." Then, suddenly remembering some of Sol's more dubious negotiating tactics, she spun around and confronted him, her grin fading.
"But just what did you mean by telling them you would see to my continued education? And to send my birth certificate to you? I'm not going back to school, and I made a copy of my own birth certificate before I even came here."
"Good, then we can put it into the mail first thing tomorrow," Sol said around a yawn. "Let's hit the hay, woman, minus the straw. I'm beat."
"Just a minute, Sol. You didn't answer my question about why you told them you'd see that I went back to school. I kept my mouth shut because I promised to go along with anything you said and settle whatever I took exception to later. I take exception to that, and 'later' is now."
"Mariah, it's been a long, draining day, and last night was no walk in the park. This can wait until we're ready to deal with it. I feel like I've been put through the spin cycle on a heavy-duty washer, and surely you do too. Let's go to bed. I could use a few hugs and some more make-up kisses."
"No, it can't wait, and you can forget any hugs and kisses until you tell me you were placating them with that line of tripe. I got the feeling that parting handshake with my father had something to do with a meeting of minds I wasn't privy to."
"It's not tripe, Mariah." Sighing heavily, Sol grasped her shoulders and said firmly, "You are going to med school. I asked your father to see that your transcripts were forwarded to the school nearest us, which is only about an hour's drive. He assured me that with his pull and your credentials he could get you in, no problem. I didn't realize the leading institutions had been fighting for the exclusive rights to you. Though I don't know why I should be surprised—you haven't quit amazing me since the day we met."
"I don't believe you!" Fighting the im
pulse to lunge at him, she poked his chest with a finger. "How dare you make decisions that are mine, and mine alone, to make. Not only that, you did it knowing full well I've had enough education to last me a lifetime. I told you that and yet you go acting as authoritarian as my parents. I didn't leave them just to hook up with an overbearing substitute."
Sol looked down at her finger. "Why do I get the impression that since you've had a taste of independence, you're feeling your oats? I liked you better when you were facing down Tom and Nita."
"And I don't like you at all right now," she shot back.
"Suit yourself, kid. But this 'overbearing substitute' has reason to think you're rebelling to assert what you perceive as maturity. Here's a news flash from someone who's already tread that hot wire and come back. Being mature means acting as a responsible adult."
"I am a responsible adult, and I expect you to treat me like one."
"I will, as soon as you realize that means seeing beyond your own needs. It extends to those depending on you, and the challenge of returning what gifts we're given to the world-at-large. Your parents admitted to being wrong about a lot of things, but they were right about that."
Resisting the urge to cover her ears, to spit on the ground and throw her cursed gift in God's face, Mariah asserted her freedom to choose.
"I don't want the gift. Let someone else have it and go in my place to med school. Someone who wants to be there, because I won't. What I've got now is plenty to suit me."
Sol shook his head with a maddeningly patient know-all, see-all certainty. "You can't give your talents away, and even if you could, I can't ignore what's there. You're a remarkable woman, Mariah, and I'm damn lucky to have you for my wife. But waste is a sin, one I can't stomach. And, if you're as adult as you say you are, neither can you."
"I didn't ask for your philosophy on life, mortal sin, or what you can or can't stomach, fella. They can all take a hike as far as I'm concerned, because no one but me is running my life—not even you."
"Grow up," he snapped. "Because as long as you're bent on hanging on to such selfish illusions, I'll be as bullying and authoritarian as I have to be until you own up to what's right. In other words, you are going back to school—even if I have to drag you every step of the way."
Chapter 17
"The pickles are ready for sampling, honey, and I think you deserve the first bite."
"Thanks, Mom," Mariah said dully, then tasted their efforts from nearly a month before...
Before she'd bared her soul in the barn. Before the medical school had contacted her about a "sudden" opening. Before her parents had begun calling every few days and sending loads of wedding presents, along with good wishes to their beloved daughter and "such an impressive, mature, and charming— please forgive us for our unforgivable slurs—husband," whom they wholly approved of, now that she didn't.
Time had marched on, and if practice made perfect, she and Sol were now pros in the fine art of arguing.
"What's wrong, honey? Missing your folks? After I married Herbert, I was homesick a good two years before I resigned myself to the fact that I was grown up and Herbert wasn't putting up with any more of my goings-on, whining, as he put it."
"Sounds like Sol takes more after him than you, Mom."
"That he does. Herbert and I wanted more babies, but it wasn't meant to be. Of course, Sol was about three rolled into one."
"He likes to 'roll,' all right. Now that 'over hill and dale' are behind him, he's advanced to steamrolling over me."
"Figured as much. Another pickle, Mariah?" Mariah waved away the offering. "What's eating at you, girl? The pickle's just fine, so I take it the same doesn't apply to you and my son."
Feeling as if she would burst from the pressure if she didn't unload, Mariah took LaVerne into her confidence.
"Mom, it's a mess. Since my parents took off, Sol and I can't agree on anything but arguing and then putting our differences aside long enough to—" Mariah cleared her throat awkwardly. "Long enough to kiss and make up before we get into it all over again."
"I'm a woman, same as you, Mariah, and in that we've got common ground. My son aside, men are what they are and women... well, what's the harm in letting them think they've got the upper hand, so long as they play into yours?"
Mariah studied her mother-in-law. She was a bit stunned that something so calculating could have come from LaVerne's salt-of-the-earth soul.
"Don't you think that's a rather manipulative way to deal with other people?"
"We're not talking about 'other people,' honey. We're talking about husbands, men who like to call the shots. Sol's like his daddy—unbending once he gets his mind set on something. Won't listen to reason or budge an inch. That's why, to bring them around and still keep the peace, we have to handle them a certain way."
Spearing another pickle, Mariah leaned closer to LaVerne. "Let me get this straight. What you're telling me is that there's a technique to working out your differences with an overbearing man that my husband failed to mention?"
"Overbearing? Why, Mariah, surely you realize they perceive themselves as fair and just." Chuckling, LaVerne wagged her finger. "And, of course, they are—at heart. They're just a little nearsighted when it comes to compromise sometimes. That's why we have to pull a few tricks to make them see the light. It's for their own good. And, of course, for ours too."
Sifting through this interesting strategy, Mariah drummed her fingers on the table. "Okay, Mom. You've got my attention."
"And attention is exactly what you've got to get. Any man who's in love with a woman—and it's plain to see that Sol's head over heels in love with you— has a weak spot, and you have to hit it just right."
"Well, it can't be the head, because his is too hard to crack."
"That's right, so you use what he can't compete against." LaVerne winked. "There's a dance in town next week. Now, I'd suggest to you that we girls approach our husbands about needing a night out. How are you fixed for a party dress?"
"I've got several sundresses, church dresses, and a drawerful of jeans that I wear all the time..." Realizing Sol rarely saw her in anything else, and that she'd even forsaken makeup in her acclimation to the country life, Mariah was disturbed that she'd neglected her feminine side. "Actually, Mom, I could use a new dress."
"Now you're cooking with gas." LaVerne motioned her toward the sewing room. "I've got a pattern in here that's just out of this world and should guarantee you Sol's undivided attention. Once you've got that, see if he doesn't soften up enough to listen."
*
"New dress, babe?"
"Like it?" Mariah said in a husky, sensual voice. As she slowly pivoted in front of the porch swing he'd been impatiently lounging on while she finished getting ready, Sol took inventory of his wife.
At least he assumed it was Mariah, with her hair a wild mass of fluffed-out curls, makeup that transformed her sweet features into those of a knockout. And a dress that revealed too much cleavage, too much leg, and hugged her behind too tightly for a public place.
"It's, uh... something else," he said hoarsely, wondering if every other man's tongue at the dance was going to be trailing the ground too. Hell, he could taste the dirt already.
"Sure you don't want to drive with Ma and Dad?" At least in the backseat he could get his hands on some of that leg and those creamy shoulders, which were bare except for two straps that looked as though they might snap any minute from the strain of her bosom.
"I'd rather drive alone with you," she said in an unusually provocative tone, then proceeded to walk toward him with an equally provocative sway of her hips. He'd heard about Miss Lilah and her finishing school, but he was certain Mariah's strut was not part of the graduating criteria.
Placing two sets of ruby-painted nails on his shoulders, she leaned over him, and he got a clear shot of that bosom. Sol made a muffled sound of distress, having been reduced from speech to barely contained grunts.
Tracing his lips with her tong
ue, she darted it inside his mouth and took it back before he could claim it. With a quick nip of his bottom lip, she straightened and smiled sexily while her mascara-laced lashes coyly drooped. Good Lord! Where had his child bride gone to? There was not a hint of her in this femme fatale who not only made his pants feel too tight, but also expanded his conception of just who his wife was.
"If we drive alone," she said, sounding smooth and sweet as honey, "we can have more privacy, and I would like that. Wouldn't you, darling?"
"Umm... sure." At the moment, if she'd said that cows could fly, he would have agreed in a heartbeat. When she angled her gaze at his crotch before reaching for his crutches, Sol said raggedly, "Privacy's definitely a good idea. Sure you want to go to this dance, babe?"
"Oh, yes. We've never really had a date, so this will be like our first. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
That she was right struck him then. They'd never had a real courtship. Being married to her from the start, he hadn't considered her need to be romanced and sweet-talked.
"You know, Mariah, sometimes I amaze myself with my own insensitivity. Let's get out of here, gorgeous. It's past time I showed you the time of your life."
"You are my life, Sol," she murmured. "At least, I never felt truly alive until you came into it."
Her simple statement bounced in his head, and he stared at her as if for the first time. Seeing her with her lips tilted in a serene Mona Lisa smile, he realized that this was not the same woman he'd married. This Mariah was no girl, but a self-possessed woman who was lush and in full bloom. She'd come into her own, and she wore her many colors well.
When had it happened? Had the transformation been slow, or an overnight exchange of a cocoon for wings? Wings that, unlike his, had never had the opportunity to truly fly—even away from him!