Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  I narrow my lids. “So you were trying to determine my character, were you?”

  “To some extent. More, though,” he reaches up and runs a finger down my cheek, I enjoy watching you work.”

  “You—?”

  The door explodes inward, and I startle at the appearance of a big man in the doorway.

  “Clive!” he booms above the din. “You’re late.”

  “Jack, this is Kate Meadows, my—”

  “Date.” Jack thrusts a shovel-like hand at me. “Jack Murphy.”

  We shake, and I’m somewhat surprised when I withdraw with all my bones intact. “Nice to meet you.”

  He lumbers back and waves us in.

  “Uncle Clive!” A big-boned teenage girl breaks from a group of girls and hurries forward.

  Clive pecks the cheek she offers, then draws back and thrusts the origami swan at her. “Happy birthday, Heather.”

  “Oh!” Holding it by its scrawny neck, she turns it side to side. “Clever. Thank you, Uncle Clive.” Her eyes light on me. “And thank you.”

  Then it’s too much of a stretch to think Clive fashioned the little creature. Duh.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Heather, this is Kate Meadows. Kate, my niece, Heather.”

  Though the teen’s hand isn’t as large as her grandfather’s, it engulfs mine. “Glad you could make it. And you, too, Unc. Enjoy!” With a little wave that doesn’t quite work for her, and a somewhat ungainly flounce, she swings away. The teenage years can be so awkward.

  “And this is just the beginning,” Clive murmurs, his breath in my ear sending a shiver down my center, “so buckle up.”

  I look around. “You are going to stay with me—”

  “Clive!”

  A woman not much taller than me, and somewhat wider, hastens toward us.

  “My mother-in-law,” Clive says. “You’ll like her.”

  And I do. For the next hour, she and I make the rounds while Clive disappears and reappears among the guests. Gloria Murphy, though dwarfed by her husband, is nearly as boisterous as the big man, but not in any way offensive. Most times she reins in her laughter before it rises above the other voices. As for playing the good hostess, there’s acceptance in her twinkling eyes, reassurance in her hand on my arm, and interest in my person and profession. Though her older daughter—Jillian’s sister and Heather’s mother—is distant when we’re introduced, Gloria whispers, “She likes you,” as she leads me away.

  I meet everyone and am greeted warmly by most; then Gloria offers a tour of the house, at the end of which we pause in a hallway lined with pictures.

  “I suppose you’d like to see pictures of Jillian and little Sam.”

  Her forthrightness nearly makes me jump. “I would. How did you know?”

  “Clive brought you tonight, which must mean he’s serious.” She smiles. “Which hopefully means you’re serious.”

  Hopefully?

  She looks momentarily down, then back up. “Which means you ought to know more than he’s told you about my daughter and grandson.”

  Did she give this same speech to Adelphia? “I understand Clive also introduced you to Adelphia.”

  “Oh—” she waves a hand—“not the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She steps past and motions for me to follow. “Clive didn’t watch her as he watches you. You know, maintain situational awareness.”

  Is that what he was doing while I followed his mother-in-law around? Though I kept an eye on where he was in relation to me, I was certain he’d forgotten about me.

  Midway down the hall, Gloria halts and looks to me. “He was the same with Jillian.” Remembrance curves her mouth. “He loved our daughter very much.” She sighs. “Adelphia is a nice enough woman, but she was little more than appeasement.”

  “Appeasement?” I keep my eyes on her though I want badly to look at the pictures.

  “Yes. About six months ago, Jack and I told Clive it was past time he came out of mourning and started dating.”

  As my eyes widen, she nods. “I know. Sounds strange coming from the parents of the woman he loved, but that’s just it—he loved Jillian. And Sam.”

  “But, he—” No, it’s not my place to mention the guilt he carries.

  “Of course, he needs to release that, too.” She reads my thoughts. “Yes, he got caught up in his career and should have spent more time with them, but had he been there the night of the fire—”

  She breaks off. “You do know about the fire?”

  “Some of it.”

  She draws a deep breath, and I can almost feel the pain in her chest. “It was an electrical fire—faulty wiring in their new home. If Clive had been there, he would have been lost as well. And yet, he’s certain he could have brought out Jillian and Sam sooner.”

  “Sooner? Then he …”

  “Yes. He came home from a function, ahead of the fire trucks, and went in after them.” Her eyes mist. “He brought them out and not only suffered smoke inhalation, but was badly burned.”

  Clive is burned?

  She nods. “His back and upper arms.”

  Which explains why I haven’t seen the burns. Of course, he may have undergone reconstructive surgery.

  “I understand your daughter—”

  Dare I?

  “Go ahead, Kate.” She pats my arm. “I don’t mind.”

  Amazed at how forthcoming she is—I could never open up with a stranger—I say, “I understand your daughter and grandson died within days of each other.”

  Her gaze wavers. “Sam succumbed to smoke inhalation in the ambulance and Jillian … Her burns were too extensive. Though she regained consciousness the following day and asked about Sam and Clive—and we assured her that both were doing well—it wasn’t long before she slipped into a coma. She passed away two days later.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gloria Murphy draws a finger beneath her pooling eyes. “It was painful for all of us, but especially Clive. You see, he believed he’d saved them. And just as we lied to Jillian about Sam, we lied to him during his lucid moments—he was heavily sedated. By the time he recovered sufficiently to demand to see them, funeral arrangements had been made.” She sighs. “A funeral he was unable to attend due to the extent of his injuries.”

  Heart feeling as if it could use a good wringing out, I sniff.

  Gloria smiles bravely. “He won’t forgive himself for not getting home sooner … for not being home in the first place … for putting work above his family …”

  “And yet it sounds as if you do.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “We’re not saints. We had our moments of wanting to blame him for our loss, but Jillian wouldn’t allow it. Before she slipped into the coma, she told us that Jesus wanted us to hold Clive’s hand.” She leans nearer to me. “Just as he was holding hers and Sam’s.”

  “Sam’s? But you told her—?”

  “She knew, as if her little boy were standing right there with Jesus. Waiting for her.”

  Chills run up my spine, down my arms, and across my chest.

  “Um-hmm,” Gloria murmurs as I rub my arms. “The story tends to do that to people, especially believers.”

  Then she knows I’m a Christian. “Has Clive talked to you about me?”

  “Not by name, but I’m good at addition.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Putting two and two together. When Clive came to dinner a couple months back, he was riled. When I pressed him, he said he’d had a run-in with the burn unit’s artist over the inclusion of Christianity—meaning the artist had to be a Christian.” She shrugs. “And so here you are, and now I better understand why he was so bothered.”

  I think I know what she’s saying, but it never hurts to clarify. “Do you mind explaining that last bit?”

  “He was attracted to you, Kate. Thus, he couldn’t simply dismiss your disagreement. Of course, in the end you got your way, didn’t you?”

  �
�Yeah,” I say, sheepishly. “I was … sneaky.”

  She nods. “We do what we have to do. And I’m glad you did.”

  Whew! Though, as a fellow Christian, I can’t see her objecting to the inclusion of Christianity in my painting, she might not have approved of the way in which I went about it.

  “It told me that not only was Clive ready to pick up his life, but he may be receptive to returning to God. My guess is you’re the one who convinced him to go to Guatemala.”

  I shrug. “He credits me with it, but all I did was make a pronouncement on a situation I knew nothing about.”

  She shakes her head wonderingly. “Amazing the way God uses people, hmm?”

  I smile. “Amazing.”

  Gloria turns to the pictures. “This is my Jillian.”

  I step nearer the picture of a young woman who greatly resembles the one beside me—with somewhat softer features and deeply green eyes.

  “She’s lovely.”

  “Yes.” One by one, Gloria goes through the pictures that tell the story of her daughter’s life. Of course, those that hold my attention the longest are the ones in which Clive is present—their wedding and the progression of their son from infancy to his fifth birthday. His last birthday …

  I respect the silence into which Gloria descends as she stares at the picture of her grandson, whose breath causes the flames at the tip of each candle to strain in that split second before the light is snuffed out.

  She squares her shoulders and returns to the picture of the glowing bride and her captivated groom. “The wedding was a simple affair. They were happy. And I want Clive to be happy again.”

  “You really care about him.”

  “Though Jillian and Sam are gone, he’s still our son.” Eyes watering further, she dons a lopsided grin. “If you’re what you seem, Kate Meadows, I’m counting on you to keep him heading in the right direction.”

  Sounds like a vote of confidence, but what if I fail her? What if her expectations are higher than what I’m capable of?

  “Time for us to return to the party.” She takes my arm and leads me down the hallway. “I’m surprised Clive hasn’t come looking for you. My guess is Jack corralled him.”

  As we turn into the living room, she drops her hand from me. “I can’t wait to see the work you’ve done on the burn unit.”

  “Then don’t. Drop by anytime and I’ll—”

  She shakes her head. “Jack and I have decided to wait until the grand opening.”

  “Oh. Certainly.” Knowing I’ve monopolized her long enough, I say, “Thank you, Mrs. Murphy—for everything.”

  “You’re welcome. And call me Gloria.” She smiles as if in parting, but then her brow furrows. “I understand that Clive commissioned a memorial plaque.”

  “Yes, and it’s beautiful—especially the words.”

  She nods. “It was a big step for him. Do you know if there’ll be a picture of Jillian and Sam?”

  Does she know about his sterile office, the walls of which are conspicuously absent of family photos?

  I shrug. “He hasn’t said anything about it to me. But that doesn’t mean he won’t have one hung.”

  She looks down, then back up. “He needs to get past it, Kate,” she says with an intensity that makes me feel the matter’s entrusted to me. “Until he does, how can we?”

  I lay a hand to her arm. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Oh, Lord! Did I just accept a mission? I am not cut out for missionary work. You know it. I know it. What have I done?

  “Kate.”

  I turn to Clive, whose questioning face makes me feel as if I’ve been caught doing something dishonest.

  He halts alongside me. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Uh … yes. Gloria has introduced me around and we’ve visited a bit.” More than a bit.

  He turns his regard to his mother-in-law. “Thank you, Gloria.”

  She inclines her head. “Well, it’s past time we lit the candles.” She steps past me and raises her arms. “Everyone! Cake! The dining room! Now!”

  “Welcome to the Murphys,” Clive murmurs.

  “They seem very nice.”

  He parts his lips as if to say something; however, a moment later he’s covering my hands with one of his. At which point I become aware I’m rubbing the medallion.

  “What is it you want to believe, Kate?”

  So many things that have to do with him—that he’ll get past his loss, that he’s capable of loving another woman, that a biological child isn’t more important than his love for a woman. But it’s not the time or place.

  I try to smile. “I’ll tell you later.”

  An hour and a half later, filled up on finger foods, cake, and ice cream, we say our good-byes. On the porch, Gloria gives me a hug while her husband pulls Clive aside and rasps, “Date, maybe mate.”

  Gloria gasps. “Jack!”

  Shrugging off his failure to be discreet, he claps his son-in-law on the back and follows his clucking wife back inside.

  “Jack likes you,” Clive says as we make our way through the darkness toward the car.

  “Hmm. And we didn’t exchange more than a dozen words.”

  “He trusts Gloria’s judgment, and I believe you did more than exchange a dozen words with her.”

  Does he know?

  I glance at his night profile. Hard to tell.

  He opens the car door for me, and shortly we leave the neighborhood behind.

  Clive looks at me. “It’s early yet. Would you like to go somewhere?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where?”

  “Uh, I don’t drink, so …”

  “Bars are out.”

  What if he’s an alcoholic? What if, all these years, he’s been grieving at the bottom of a bottle? Of course, I’ve never seen him look anything but in control, and have yet to catch the scent of alcohol on him. Still, I have to ask.

  “Do you drink?”

  “An occasional glass of wine with dinner.”

  Okay. Falls within the guidelines of many Christians. Actually, if not for the fact that I don’t particularly like the taste of alcohol, I might have an occasional glass myself.

  “Does that bother you, Kate?”

  “That you drink? Occasionally? No. Everything in moderation, right?”

  He gives me a glancing smile. “Right.”

  I sink back in the seat, and it hits me—I am so buzzing. Sleep deficit having caught up with me, I have a sudden longing for a plump pillow. And so I lower my lids against the glare of headlights. And sink deeper.

  “So have you decided where you want me to take you?”

  “Um-hmm.” I sigh. “To bed.”

  ilence—until I sit bolt upright and start choking on saliva.

  “I didn’t—”

  Hack! Hack!

  “Didn’t mean—”

  Hack! Hack! Hack!

  Clive thumps me on the back. “Do I need to pull over?”

  “No! I’m all right.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You know, about … the …”

  Come on, Kate, it’s not a four-letter word!

  “Be-ed!” I spit out in a voice cracked straight down the middle.

  Clive smiles. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed.”

  Oh, boy.

  Grateful for the dim interior, I say, “I’m just tired.”

  “Then I should take you home.”

  “No!”

  Ack! What is my problem? And, yes, he should take me home, as I could really use some uninterrupted sleep. But it’s not what I want.

  I look to him. “Wherever you’d like to go is fine with me.”

  “You sure?”

  I press my shoulders back lest the seat once more tempt me to muttering about B-E-D. “Absolutely.”

  “It’s clear tonight, and unseasonably warm.”

  Funny things, San Francisco’s summers—cool, foggy, and with temperatures averaging fifty to sixty-five degrees. “
Yes. Very pleasant.”

  “Do you trust me, Kate?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a place I’d like to take you, but I want you to feel comfortable, as it’ll just be the two of us. Trust me?”

  “Wouldn’t have got in the car if I didn’t.” I grin. “Besides, I carry pepper spray.”

  “Wise.” He takes a sharp right onto Highway 1.

  “Stinson Beach?” I venture.

  “Not quite.”

  When the ocean comes into view, the moon cuts through the darkness to spill stars among the waves.

  I sigh. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It is.”

  Ten minutes later, he pulls off the highway. “And now we walk.”

  “Walk? Where?”

  “You’ll see.” He opens his door and comes around to hand me out.

  As I straighten alongside him, the cool breeze coming off the water whispers at my hem, reminding me that I’m hardly dressed for a walk—especially a walk in the dark.

  Clive closes the door. “I forgot about your skirt, but your shoes are sensible.”

  Yes, but is a night walk sensible?

  I look to the hill that rises at his back. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “It’s an easy walk.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me.” He entwines his fingers with mine, causing prickles to take up residence on my limbs.

  “All right, but you should know I’m not the adventurous, spontaneous type.”

  “I know.” He draws me toward the hill.

  “This should do.” He releases my arm, leaps onto a rock, and reaches back to assist me. Shortly, he turns me to face the ocean and the salted breeze that has badgered my backside throughout the climb. I sigh into it and momentarily ponder the reason it’s so much warmer up high.

  Ah, exertion. That would be me.

  “Worth the climb?” Clive asks at my back.

  I have to admit that it’s breathtaking, but worth the climb? That might be stretching it.

  He pulls me back against him. “Worth it?”

  Absolutely. Positively. Irrefutably. Indisputably.

  I close my eyes and concentrate on his warm breath swirling in my ear. “Definitely worth it.”

  “Good.” To my groaning disappointment, he drops his arms from me, takes my hand, and draws me toward the topmost rock. Somehow, I make it with minimal scrapes.