She looked at the desk, then went over and sat in his chair. On the side, next to the computer where he worked when he wasn't sitting at the drafting table, was a photograph of the two of them. It wasn't a wedding photo. It had been taken on their honeymoon, during the barn dance. She'd never seen it before. Catherine picked it up and stared at them. She touched the glass, running her finger over Jarrod as if she could touch him.
She wanted to be Jarrod's wife, with all its implications and complications. She wanted to fight with him, make love with hum, talk, dance, read his poems and love notes. She wanted the changes in her life to remain a constant part of it. Jarrod's life had changed. He'd walked with her down a path she opened. He'd adjusted to her way of life. If anyone had lost some part of himself, it was Jarrod.
Audrey came to mind, and her mother. They were opening a business and they were married. Audrey's husband was supporting her in her choice. He offered his advice when she asked and stood by her decisions when she voiced them. Their mother had raised two girls, but she wasn't old by today's standards, and it had been her decision to be a stay-at-home mom. She was making changes too, going into an endeavor with her daughter that would mean added stress and the promise of reward.
Catherine wanted to make her own decisions. She didn't want family pressure or a husband tying her to a path. That was what she'd told Jarrod on their honeymoon. She knew he spoke for himself when she accused him of being the one man who was different, who would complement his wife instead of mold her into some unwanted role.
He was different. And she wanted him to remain that way. She wanted to tell him, rush out of the door and find him, let him know that nothing on earth was stronger than her feelings for him. That the two of them needed to talk, needed to redirect their lives and their marriage. That she was willing to work at the relationship, build it one day at a time, the way his plans were laid out. That her rigid ideas could be made flexible, and that she could adjust to the changes that life threw in her path, that she only wanted to walk that path if he walked with her.
But it was too late. She looked at the photo again, then hugged the frame to her chest.
Jarrod was gone.
Chapter 14
Catherine stared at the test kits. She didn't believe them. She'd been staring at them for hours, hoping they would change. Coming home tonight, she'd bought three more. All four of them showed the same result. She was pregnant!
Dry-eyed and stony, she sat on the bathtub rim and willed the results to change. But they didn't. The pink turned pink. The blue turned blue. The plus sign showed up bright and clear. Four tests couldn't lie.
What was she going to do? Jarrod and she? They were going to have a baby. She was going to be a mother. He a father. Where was he?
She hadn't thought about getting pregnant until it was too late. She knew exactly when it happened. At Stone House. She'd been so glad to see Jarrod that they had made love then and there, on the floor in front of the hearth. She hadn't filled her prescription in her haste to get to Maine. Neither of them thought of a condom or the consequences of their lovemaking, but here were the results. Four small packages hailing the beginning of life. She touched herself, smoothed her hand across her abdomen as if she could feel the small cells splitting, multiplying, growing larger with each hour, each day. She needed to talk to someone. She needed Jarrod. She wanted him. She wanted to crawl into his arms and have him whisper in her ear that it was all right, that everything would be all right. But she couldn't talk to him. He was either working or out of town. When he was home, he wasn't really there. At least not for her. Tonight she didn't know where he was. He'd left a message with Jenny that he wouldn't be home for dinner, and it was past two o'clock in the morning now.
Catherine gathered all the tests and threw them in the trash. She dressed for bed, knowing sleep was not on the agenda tonight. As she slipped between the sheets, she heard the doorbell. She glanced out the window and saw Jarrod's Jeep and another car in the circular driveway. Grabbing her robe, she headed for the door. She couldn't think why he was ringing the doorbell. She was just glad he was home.
Pulling the door open, she was surprised to see Robert and Elizabeth. They had Jarrod's arms over their shoulders.
"What happened?" She swung the door wide and they brought him in.
"I got a call that he couldn't drive."
"Is he all right?"
"Sure, he'll be fine in the morning," Robert said.
"Maybe the afternoon," Elizabeth corrected.
Catherine closed the door. She came around to look at him. "He's drunk," she said.
"Where do you want him?" Robert asked.
"Can you take him upstairs?" The three of them got him to the second floor. Elizabeth got to the top of the stairs first. She went into the first bedroom, which Jarrod was no longer sharing. Catherine didn't say anything. She pulled his shoes off and Robert removed his tie. They pulled the blanket over him and the three of them left.
"What happened?" Catherine asked when they were downstairs.
"I don't know. He apparently drank too much at George's bar. George took the keys to the Jeep." He reached in his pocket. "I left them in the Jeep," he explained.
Catherine nodded. "I'll get them later."
"George knows we're friends, so he called me. Jarrod fell asleep on the drive here."
Catherine knew he meant he'd passed out and Robert was either saving her feelings or preserving Jarrod's dignity.
She wanted to run upstairs to Jarrod but remembered her manners. "Can I get you two something to drink?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "Robert was about to take me home." Elizabeth hugged her and Robert kissed her on the cheek. They went out and Catherine ran upstairs. Jarrod was sprawled across the bed, snoring.
Catherine climbed up next to him. She ran her hand down his chin. He needed a shave. He stirred but didn't awaken. He cleared his throat and the snoring stopped. Catherine knew it was only temporary. He'd snore again before long. She was glad he was home, glad he was back in her bed, although he would feel awful in the morning. She imagined it was feeling awful that drove him to the bar. It had to be her and her feelings about marriage that drove him away. He had been in love with her since she was sixteen years old, he'd said, and she was planning to divorce him.
Catherine pulled the covers back and unbuttoned his shirt. She took it off him and removed his pants and socks. He wore black silky underwear, the same ones he'd had on at Stone House. She wondered if he was wearing them for the same reason. Did he want her, and this was his way of keeping the memory of her close? He said he wouldn't torture her with his lovemaking. Was not making love torturing him as much as it was abusing her?
She covered him before she let her hands run over his body the way she wanted to. Then she got into bed. She moved close to him, and instinctively his arms wrapped around her, almost as if they could do nothing else. She felt content. Tonight she would sleep. She'd let tomorrow worry about itself. Tonight she would lie in Jarrod's arms even if it was for the last time. She closed her eyes and relaxed. She drifted off, lulled by the rhythmic nature of Jarrod's snore.
Suddenly her eyes snapped fully open. The pregnancy test, kits, cups, sticks and results were in the bathroom. Catherine eased out of bed as carefully as she had eased into it. She had at least one more mile to go before she slept.
***
Why wouldn't that ringing stop? It hurt, but it was insistent. Jarrod opened his eyes. The room spun. The light stabbed him. He lifted his head. It felt like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. He fell back. The ringing continued. It's the phone, his mind told him. He reached for it, and his body nearly crushed Catherine's. What was she doing in his bed? How did he get to bed? The last thing he remembered. . .he didn't know the last thing he remembered. The phone rang again. He grabbed it and pulled it onto the bed. Catherine opened her eyes.
"Hullo." His voice was thick. His tongue felt like it was swollen and his mouth tasted f
oul. Then he remembered George's.
"Who is this?" Jarrod tried to make sense of the voice on the phone. The person was talking fast. "Slow down," he said, holding his head.
"Here, let me take it." Catherine took the phone. "Hello?" she said. Then listened. "Hello, Elizabeth."
Catherine looked at the clock. "Elizabeth, it's six o'clock in the morning. What's wrong?" Catherine pushed herself up in the bed. Jarrod pulled a pillow over his head. She was speaking too loud for his hangover.
"What?" Catherine shouted. Jarrod pulled the pillow back a little. It penetrated his brain that something was wrong. "Newspaper." Catherine's normally low voice was scaling up from a middle C.
She twisted around and hung up the phone. Jarrod felt her scrambling out of bed. "You talked to a reporter," Catherine shouted.
He looked up. "What?"
"How could you?"
She left the room, then. What was she talking about? What had Elizabeth said? Jarrod turned over. He didn't care. His head was going to explode. He needed to keep it attached so he could hold his brains together.
"Jarrod." He heard the door slam closed and Catherine's high-pitched voice at the same time.
"Catherine, please be quiet."
She yanked the covers back. "I will not be quiet. How could you do this? Are you just trying to get back at me because I'm still planning to divorce you?" He stared at her as she paced the floor in front of the bed.
She was wearing practically nothing and he had a hard time concentrating when she was fully dressed. With the dregs of last night still fuzzing his mind, he couldn't make heads or tails out of what she was saying. "What are you talking about?"
"Jarrod, this is low. I never thought you were this vindictive." She threw a newspaper at him. He brought his hands up in an instinctively protective gesture. "Now get out of my bed and out of my house."
Jarrod swung his legs over the side of the bed. Catherine left the room with a bang. He hung his head and fought back waves of nausea. When the room stopped moving, and he felt he could focus, he picked up the paper. What was in it that could make her so angry?
He turned it over. Photos of himself and Catherine looked back at him. Sandwiched between them was the headline. HIS 1-800-WIFE jumped off the page in bold black letters in 90-point type. The words hit him squarely between the eyes. An arrow pointed from the word his to the photo of him. A corresponding one pointed from wife to Catherine.
"Bulldog," Jarrod said out loud. Last night at the bar. The man he was talking to. "I've got a bulldog to put to bed." That's what the man had said. At the time, Jarrod thought he had a dog. He was a reporter. He didn't mean a dog. He was going to get his bulldog out, his bulldog issue, his newspaper.
"Oh, God," he groaned, wishing he could die right now.
Every detail was there. The phone number, the reason, the temporary nature of the marriage. Everything, including the fact that he was in love with Catherine.
He knew why she was angry. The next couple of days were going to be hell for her, and people would bring it up for years to come. He'd done her a terrible injustice, however unintentional. There was no way he could make it up to her; no amount of apology could retract the damning nature of the story. It wasn't on page one, but that didn't matter. In a town this size and with a community this small, word would be all over town by noon.
Jarrod stood too quickly. His head reminded him of the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the previous evening. If only he'd come home last night instead of stopping in George's. He hadn't. He couldn't take another night of being so close to Catherine and not being able to touch her, hold her. He told her that he wouldn't torture her, but he was the one in pain. Every time he looked at her, thought of her, he wanted her, and to be in the same house, knowing she was in bed only a few doors away, was too much. He'd stayed away and gone to George's.
He tried to walk. He had to find her, try to explain, to apologize.
Where were his clothes? He didn't know how he'd gotten into Catherine's bed, who had undressed him or where they had put his clothes. He went to his room and pulled on the first pair of jeans he saw. A shirt hung on the valet and he grabbed it. Barefoot, he padded down the stairs, pushing his arms into the shirt as he went. His head was throbbing. Jenny was in the kitchen.
"Is there coffee?"
She poured him a cup, saying nothing.
"Where's Catherine?"
"I don't know, sir."
If it hadn't been scalding hot, Jarrod would have upended the cup. He took a sip, hoping it would help his head and cursing himself for going to a bar.
"Catherine?" he called, leaving the kitchen. She didn't answer. "Catherine, where are you?" Jarrod looked in all the rooms on the first floor. He found her in the den, pacing back and forth like an angry cat. "Catherine, I'm sorry." She turned and looked at him with rage in her eyes.
"Jarrod, how could you? I trusted you."
"I didn't mean to. We were sitting at the bar, just talking. I had a drink."
"You had a lot to drink."
He nodded. "I did." His head still throbbed with the amount he'd drunk. "I'd never have said anything if I hadn't had too much to drink."
He stopped. He wanted to hang his head, get the ringing to stop. He sipped the coffee. It was cool enough to drink and he drained the cup. He wished he'd asked Jenny to bring him a pot.
"What can I say, Catherine?"
"I think you've already said enough."
"I've been tortured living here. I just can't go on like this."
"It's torture for me too, Jarrod. And as of this moment, you don't live here anymore."
She moved to pass him. He took her arms and restrained her.
"You don't mean that."
She wrenched herself free. Eyes the color of pitch glared at him.
"With every breath in my body."
She left the room, head high but shoulders in a defeated slant. The phone on the desk rang. He ignored it. There was no extension in the kitchen. The answering machine would get it. He couldn't talk to anyone right now.
He'd lost Catherine. No matter what he did, the wedge between them grew wider. His tactics, the dates, the stone house weekend, his resolution to torture her into submission, had all failed. And the paper, the damning evidence of too many drinks, stared at him where he'd dropped it.
Catherine would never love him now. She had, but he'd killed it with a bottle of Jack Daniels and the loose tongue of a drunk. Jarrod didn't drink often. After last night he never should again.
He was sorry, but sorry wasn't enough. The phone rang again. He left the room. His jacket lay over a chair near the door. He pulled it on and left the house. He realized he was barefoot when he stepped onto the cobblestoned driveway. The cold, uneven rocks bore into his feet, unbalancing him. Jarrod rejected the idea of returning for his shoes. He got into the Jeep and found the keys still in the ignition. Backing down the driveway, his anger hot and intact, he slammed into the plastic trash receptacle. It tipped and spilled plastic bags onto the pavement.
Jarrod sped away, never seeing Catherine staring at him from the upstairs window or the open bag of trash with the revealing contents of Catherine's four pregnancy tests.
***
Elizabeth's call was only the first. The phone started ringing and didn't stop. Jarrod was already gone. Catherine hadn't realized how many phones they had. They rang in the bedroom, in the den, the fax phone, the one in her office upstairs.
The first call was from her mother.
"Catherine, is this true?"
"The newspaper story?" She didn't need to confirm her mother's question, but she did anyway.
"Of course the newspaper report. Did you and Jarrod really marry as a way to keep me from hounding you?"
"Mom, the newspaper is exaggerating." She could hear the hurt in her mother's voice. She'd never intended to hurt anyone, especially the people she loved. The phone started to beep, alerting her that there was another call coming in. "Mom
, please hold on a moment." Depressing the switch hook, she took the next call.
"Catherine," Audrey said, her voice already higher than normal.
"Audrey, I'll have to call you back. Mom is on the other line." Catherine didn't give Audrey time to say anything. She pressed the button to go back to her mother.
"I'm back," she told her.
"Then it isn't true?" There was hope in her mother's voice.
"Newspapers never tell the whole truth."
"Which part of it isn't true?"
Catherine sighed. "I haven't read it all yet," she hedged. She had read most of the half-page article. In newspaper terms, that was an inordinate amount of space.
The beeping started again. She ignored it.
"If you weren't in love with Jarrod, there was no reason for you to feel you needed to marry anyone."
She said anyone as if Catherine had pulled the first man she saw off the street.
"It wasn't like that, Mom."
"Then tell me, Catherine, exactly how was it?"
"All right." She sighed again. She wished Jarrod were here. She needed someone to support her, and while this newspaper story was his doing, he was the only person who could possibly understand. The two of them had gone into this scheme together. It had been her plan, but he'd bought into it. And nothing had worked out the way she thought it would. She'd fallen in love with Jarrod. That wasn't supposed to happen. She'd fought with him, ordered him out of her house. Now he was gone and she wanted him back.
And she was pregnant!
She choked on the thought. She'd forgotten. How could she forget such a thing?
"We, Jarrod and I, thought we would get married for six months and then we'd get divorced."
"Why?"
She had to say this delicately. The newspaper reporter had already slanted it in the worst possible way. "We were invited to cozy dinners for four introducing us to eligible young men or women. We thought if we combined forces we could live like we wanted and no one would be hurt."
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