by Sandra Field
Inadvertently she’d found the weapon she needed. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” she said coldly. “Sex like we had is probably pretty rare. But it’s still just sex.”
“I wasn’t even a person to you, was I?” he said with icy control. “And I thought it was supposed to be men who were guilty of that particular fault.”
She wanted to cry out that He was wrong, that it had been something about him, specific and impelling, that had broken through her self-imposed celibacy. But she couldn’t tell him. She had to end this quickly, before she broke down and wept like a baby. “Don’t try' to tell me you’re in love with me,” she said, “because I won’t believe it.”
“Whether I am or not is none of your business,” he grated. “It’s been a long time since I misread someone so badly… you’d think I’d know better by now. Goodbye, Julie. Have a nice life.”
Very quietly he shut the door behind him. Moving like an old woman, Julie snapped the latch and put the chain in its slot. Then she walked into her bedroom, threw herself across the quilt and began to weep.
Three weeks went by, during which Julie went through the motions at home and at work. The days at work were the least difficult, because she enjoyed her patients and was enough of a professional to shut out her personal life. The nights alone in her spindle bed were die worst. There, Travis haunted her waking thoughts and her dreams; after ten days she had blue shadows under her eyes and had lost four pounds.
On the weekends she went camping in the Adirondacks, had dinner with Kathy and Michael, and attended a three-day music festival; any activity was preferable to sitting in her apartment staring at the four walls and remembering with aching clarity the passion-filled hours she’d spent with Travis at the resort. As the days—and nights—slowly passed, he made no attempt to get in touch with her. And how could she blame him?
It was always a relief to go back to work on Monday mornings. The Monday after the festival was particularly busy. At two-thirty, Julie grabbed a coffee and a muffin and went to the empty staff room with them. The muffin was stuffed with fruit and bran; she chewed it valiantly, wishing her appetite would come back. To top it off, she felt bone-tired from morning to night. It really had been just sex between her and Travis, she thought fiercely, washing down the muffin with a gulp of coffee. Sex, plain and simple.
“You look very militant, Julie,” an amused voice said from the doorway.
With a nervous start, Julie looked up. Then she put down the last of the muffin and smiled with genuine pleasure. “Leonora,” she said, “how nice to see you. But have I missed something? Do you have an appointment today?”
Leonora Connolly had had a series of appointments with Julie earlier in the summer. She was a tall, statuesque woman with very blue eyes, and a wealth of dark hair faintly streaked with grey. Julie had liked her from the start, and had done her best to alleviate some of the damage that a lifetime as a professional dancer had inflicted on Leonora’s tendons and ligaments.
Leonora smiled. “May I come, in? No, I don’t have an appointment. I was visiting a friend who’s been admitted here for a few days, and thought I’d drop by and tell you how much better I’ve been feeling since our sessions. I’m so grateful to you.”
“Don’t forget that you worked hard, too,” Julie laughed. “I can’t claim all the credit. Can I get you a coffee? As hospital coffee goes, it’s not bad.”
“No, thanks, I can’t stay.”
Julie’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “You know, it’s funny but you remind me of someone. Someone I’ve seen recently…”
“Oh?” Leonora said, her jaw tensing slightly.
Her fingers unconsciously tightening around her cup, Julie said flatly, “Oh. I remember now. It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me who, Julie. Please.”
There was an insistence in Leonora’s voice that took Julie by surprise. With huge reluctance she said, “I met a Dr. Travis Strathem a few weeks ago. His eyes are very like yours, such a deep blue… Leonora, what’s wrong?”
For the other woman had paled, briefly looking every year of her age. Leaning against the doorframe, she blurted, “Did you like him?”
“He’s apparently a very fine doctor,” Julie said evasively.
“I didn’t mean professionally. As a man. What did you think of him?”
Gossip and indiscretion were characteristics Julie would never have applied to Leonora Connolly. Puzzlement overcoming her reluctance, Julie said, “Travis? Forceful, charismatic, articulate. He says it like it is. No games.” She grimaced. “Tall, dark and handsome. A male counterpart to you, in that respect.”
Leonora said faintly, “I see.”
“Do you know him? Leonora, you don’t look well, can I get you something?”
“He’s my son,” Leonora said.
Her head whirling, Julie put her cup down on the table. Whatever she might have expected Leonora to say, it wouldn’t have been this.
For Travis’s mother was dead.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The silence stretched out. Realizing she had to say something, Julie faltered, “Leonora, Travis can’t be your son. He told me his mother died when he was six.”
“It’s a long story,” Leonora said. Awkwardly she straightened, looking every year of her age. “Is there somewhere we could go to talk in private?”
The grace and elegance of Leonora’s movements had been the first thing Julie had noticed about her; although this soon had been followed by admiration for her innate dignity of spirit. For Leonora to abandon both must mean that she was deeply upset. “We could go to my office,” Julie said. “It’s small, but I can close the door.”
Quickly she led the way down the corridor, ushering Leonora into a cubicle that contained little more than a desk, two chairs and some shelves. She closed the door and sat down. “I shouldn’t have mentioned the likeness between you and Travis,” she said remorsefully. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“How well do you know him?”
And how was she supposed to answer that? “I met him at a party. I’ve only seen him a couple of times since then,” Julie said, more or less truthfully.
“I have to tell someone what this is all about,” Leonora said helplessly. “It’s driving me mad.”
“Take your time,” Julie said gently.
“Yes.” Leonora took a deep breath and launched herself. “I always wanted to be a dancer. I started lessons when I was just a child, and it was obvious from the beginning that I had more than ordinary talent. And then when I was eighteen, I met a man called Charles Strathem. Handsome, forceful, dynamic… well, you get the picture. I fell madly in love and into his bed without once considering the consequences. It’s an old story, Julie. I ended up at the altar pregnant. Travis was born five months later.”
Julie sat very still, her heart racing under her uniform. Instinctively she knew Leonora was telling the truth; nor was it difficult to picture this imperious, talented woman as Travis’s mother. “Go on,” she said softly.
“I tried my best to be a good mother. But in essence I don’t have a maternal bone in my body. I soon went back to dancing lessons, and then began teaching dance in Boston, getting away from all my responsibilities as often as I could. It wasn’t enough, because the whole artistic scene on the East Coast was too conservative for my taste; but I had to make do with what was available. I’d realized a year after I was married that Charles wasn’t the man for me, but I made the best of that, too. Then, when Travis was five, I got pregnant again, this time with twins.”
“Twins?” Julie echoed.
“A boy and a girl, born just after Travis turned six. Brent and Jenessa.” Leonora looked down at her fingers, clenched in her lap. “I felt so trapped, so confined. At first I was angry with the whole world. But I couldn’t take that anger out on my children, it wasn’t their fault. So it turned inward, and I grew more and more depressed. Finally, I went to New York, to see a world-renowned psychiatrist whom Charles
knew… there was a recital while I was there by an avant garde dancer from Paris, Madeleine Mercier. I went to see her dance, and two days later I, too, was in Paris. I simply ran away. Abandoned my marriage and my children.”
Her head buzzing with questions, Julie sat very still. There was more to come, she knew.
“I’d never been known for forethought,” Leonora said wryly. “The day I arrived in Paris, I phoned Charles, to tell him I’d fly home every two months to see the children. He said I was to change my name, and that if I ever showed my face in Boston or on Manatuck again, he’d ruin me. His lawyers, he said, would be sending me divorce papers, and he would get sole custody of the children.” She gave a reminiscent shudder. “I thought of flying home that very day. But Madeleine had already taken me on as a pupil, and I was sure if I waited a few weeks he’d calm down. However, by the time I got in touch with him again, he’d already told Travis that I had died. I found out later he’d invented a fictitious funeral in Philadelphia, where I was born. The twins, of course, were too young to know about any of this.”
“How could Charles have done that to his own son?” Julie said, aghast.
“I’d wounded his pride. I’d made a fool of him.”
“He’s never told Travis the truth about you.”
“That’s why I’m here. To make peace with Travis, if that’s possible. But I’ve been too afraid to contact him.” She gave Julie a shaky smile. “It’s ludicrous, isn’t it? I’m living in the same town, and I haven’t made a move to see him. Or the twins. Brent, I gather, works in Boston, while Jenessa’s an artist, living in a little village west of Boston.”
Travis had never once mentioned that he had a sister. Nor, for that matter, had Brent. Julie said reluctantly, “After you left, Travis was sent away to boarding school, and for two years wasn’t even allowed back to Manatuck.”
“One more betrayal… he loved that place.” Leonora raised her head, with its crown of dark hair. “Julie, I’m going to ask a favor of you. A huge favor. You’ve met Travis. He trusts you enough that he’s told you what happened when he was six. I want you to tell him that I didn’t die, that I’m here in Portland, and I want to see him. You could prepare him, so that it won’t be such a terrible shock for him.”
“I couldn’t!”
“Please… I don’t often beg for anything, I have more than my share of pride, too. But I’m begging you now. The truth is, I’m afraid. Afraid that he won’t consent to see me at all.” Her smile was twisted. “I’ve danced in front of the toughest critics in Europe, and I’m afraid of my own son. But why should Travis want to see me? I left him, abandoned him, ran away as though he didn’t matter at all.” Leonora’s eyes were bleak with remembered sorrow.
Briefly Julie rested her head in her hands. “I don’t really know Travis that well,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Let me tell you something—I liked you from the first moment I met you. You’re honest and courageous. You, more than anyone I know, can do this.”
For a wild moment Julie considered telling Leonora about the weekend she’d spent in Travis’s arms; and how she’d then sent him away, because she, too, was afraid of him. She looked up. “I’ll do it,” she said, her voice sounding as though it came from a long way away. “But you’ve got to give me a couple of days to think about it, and rehearse what I’m going to say.”
“Of course.” Leonora slowly unclenched her hands. “Thank you, Julie. More than I can say.”
“Maybe we should wait to see how this all turns out before you thank me.”
“You’ll do the best you can. The rest is up to Travis.” Julie pushed herself to her feet. Her cold hands pressing against the desk, she said, “I’ve got to go back to work, Leonora. I have an appointment in five minutes.”
The older woman hesitated. “You’ll let me know as soon as you see Travis?”
“Yes, of course,” Julie replied. Briefly Leonora rested one hand on Julie’s shoulder; then she walked away down the empty corridor.
Julie watched her go. Three weeks ago she’d told Travis their relationship was over. Now she was committed to seeking him out, as the bearer of shattering news.
To say that she was afraid was a massive understatement. And yet, beneath the terror, wasn’t there a grain of pure joy that she would be seeing him again?
Travis was late home from work on Wednesday evening. It had been an exhausting day. Far too much paperwork, two patients who seemed to think he had nothing to do but immerse himself in their imaginary symptoms, and a tragic prognosis he’d had to deliver to another of his patients, a young woman with three small children.
His exhaustion stemmed from more than a bad day at work. Try as he might, he couldn’t get Julie out of his system. More times than he’d care to admit he’d pulled back with his hand actually on the receiver to phone her; twice he’d driven past her apartment, just to see the lights glowing from her narrow windows. He was obsessed with her, he thought savagely. Worse, nothing he did loosened her grip one iota.
He hated being so helpless. So entrapped.
He tossed a package of frozen pasta in the microwave and hit the buttons. He didn’t even like pasta. But he lacked the energy to barbecue anything, and he didn’t want to eat by himself in a restaurant.
He was a mess.
He went into the bedroom, hauling his shirt over his head and searching for a clean T-shirt in the drawer. He should do a wash. Maybe he’d get around to it on the weekend. Although Bryce, on their last conversation, had suggested that Travis make use of Bryce’s cottage north of Portland next weekend. Get the hell out of that condo, is what Bryce had actually said. Along with a fair number of uncomplimentary remarks about Julie.
What was he going to do at the cottage? Think about Julie from Friday night to Sunday evening, that’s what.
The T-shirt slung over one shoulder, Travis went back into the kitchen and opened the microwave. He’d forgotten to pry open the corner of the pasta box. Steam had ruptured the cardboard seal, splattering rigatoni all over one wall of the microwave. Then the doorbell rang, a melodious chiming that made Travis swear out loud. If it was the blond bombshell down the hallway who was pursuing him with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, she was right out of luck.
Not bothering to look through the peephole, he yanked the door open, a blistering refusal already on his tongue. His jaw dropped. “Julie!” he gasped.
In one quick glance he took in every detail of her appearance: slim white jeans, a coral silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up, coral lipstick and blusher and eyes a wide, terrified green. She’d come back, he thought in a great flood of gratitude and joy. She’d changed her mind.
He put his arms around her waist, lifted her over the threshold, slammed the door shut with one foot and began kissing her. He could feel the shock run through her, the sudden rigidity of her spine, and ignored both. She’d come back. She was in his arms, where she belonged. His Julie, his beautiful Julie…
With another of those surges of passionate gratitude, he realized she was kissing him back, her hips pressed to his, her palms clasping his bare ribcage. Her lips were soft and warm, she smelled delicious, her body fitted his embrace as though made for it. He forgot what a desert the last three weeks had been, forgot that he was furious with her for leaving him. Swinging her off her feet, he headed for the bedroom.
The bed wasn’t made and there was dirty laundry scattered all over the rug. But what did that matter?
Wholly intent on where he was going, it took Travis several seconds to realize Julie was beating on his chest with her fists. “Travis, let me down!”
He smiled at her, a smile of unquenchable happiness. “Hey, stop that. You came here to make love with me and I’d rather do that in bed than on the hall floor.”
“I didn’t!”
“Sure you did. You don’t kiss a platonic friend the way you were just kissing me.”
“Travis, I didn’t come here to go to bed with you,” she said franticall
y. “I have something to tell you, something very important.”
He looked at her blankly for the space of five full seconds. “You’re pregnant.”
“I’m not! Don’t be silly.”
“There’s nothing silly about it. That rainy Sunday afternoon at your place we made love twice, and neither time did we use protection. That, dear Julie, is how babies get made.”
“This is something else altogether,” she said impatiently. “I don’t even know where to begin but I sure know it isn’t in your bedroom.” Still pushing at his chest, she looked around her. “Which is a mess.”
He put her down, his hands tight on her shoulders. She meant it. She hadn’t come here to revive their affair. “So what if my bedroom’s like a pigsty?” he snarled. “I miss you day and night and doing the laundry hasn’t been a priority.”
“I didn’t mean to kiss you back,” she quavered, “I’m sorry about that. It just… happened.”
“Oh sure. You had nothing to do with it.”
She wriggled her shoulders free. “I’m going into the living room, you’re going to pour me a glass of wine and then you’re going to shut up and listen to me!”
“It had better be good, that’s all I can say.”
He followed her down the hall, trying to ignore the swing of her hips in her white pants. “Find a chair,” he said. “White wine or red?”
“Red. The more robust the better.”
He opened a very expensive bottle of Merlot and poured two glasses. Julie was standing by the window, looking out over the harbor. When he passed her the glass, she took a gulp and said raggedly, “Earlier this week, I found out something about your past. Now I’ve come to tell you about it. It’s big stuff, Travis, so please listen carefully… I’ll do my best to give it to you straight.”
For the first time since she’d arrived, Travis really heard her. His nerves tightened. What did she mean? What could she have found out about him to make her look so serious? He, too, took a substantial mouthful of wine.