by Susan Wiggs
The thought must have brought a funny look to his face.
“I guess this must be pretty awful for you,” she said sympathetically.
Awful? Falling for Twyla? It was a disaster.
“I get to dance with you.” He pulled her closer.
By ten o’clock, she was glowing. The emcee, a woman named Mamie, made announcements about who had done what. She read excerpts from the yearbook that made people squirm, and she told long-buried stories about people who had forgotten how foolish they’d been. But it was all in fun.
“And then,” Mamie said with a dramatic pause, “there’s Twyla McCabe.” She fluttered her notes in Twyla’s direction.
Beside him, Rob felt her stiffen like a lodgepole pine.
“Long time no see, Twyla!” Mamie called, then consulted her notes. “Let’s see, we had French club. Four years, booster club. Two years, cheerleading. Debate society. National honor society…” She rattled off an impressive list. It was the school career of a top-notch student. Rob glanced at Twyla, hoping to see pride in her face. Instead, he saw a look of regret.
As soon as Mamie moved on to her next victim, he grabbed Twyla by the hand and hurried her outside. Under a whitish blaze of stars and moonlight, he faced her. “So what?” he said, surprised to hear anger in his voice. “So what if you didn’t go to college? So what if you don’t have some busy, rat-race career? So what if some jerk used you? You’ve got a great kid and your own business, and you could do a hell of a lot worse than that.”
She lowered her head, and he held his breath. Don’t cry, damn it, he thought. He just wasn’t good with weepers. She’d nearly slain him this morning with her crying. He couldn’t take it another time.
When she lifted her face to the light, she was smiling. “You left out one thing.”
Rob stifled an explosive sigh of relief. Without even thinking about it, he drew her close, liking the way she felt next to him. “What’s that?”
“I’m marrying a handsome doctor.”
The moment froze and crystallized in his mind. Were they still pretending, or was this real? The growing intimacy between them was definitely real, as tangible as the starry sparkle of the ruby necklace around her throat. As substantial as his physical reaction to her nearness.
He eased away from her. “Then you have nothing to worry about, ma’am. Now, can we go get a beer?”
She seemed a lot more relaxed when they went back inside. If anyone had told him he’d actually have fun going to a strange town for a high school reunion, he would have thought they were crazy. Yet after Twyla survived her moment of crisis, she made it fun. He liked the way she put her head back to laugh, the way eyes followed her through the crowded room.
Watching her animated face, Rob felt a rush reminiscent of the feeling he got from nailing a tricky diagnosis. He had made her happy. And it occurred to him that it was a rare thing in his life. It further occurred to him that the way he made Lauren happy was an entirely different process.
“You’re a lucky man,” someone said.
Dominic Hunt, Rob read on his name tag. “I feel pretty lucky.”
“Didn’t expect to see her here,” Dominic said, rocking back on his heels.
“Why is everyone so surprised to see Twyla?”
Dominic studied his feet. “You don’t come back after your father kills himself for the money.”
With that one sentence, the world turned to ice. Suddenly things came into sharp focus. If it was true, or if people even thought it was true, then it explained so much about Twyla.
Rob felt as if someone had ripped away a veil and he could see Twyla clearly now—daughter of the town failure. The shame was sunk deep into the center of her. He could only imagine the courage it had taken her to come back.
“She’s got nothing to be ashamed of,” he snapped.
“‘Course not. You can’t help who you’re related to, can you?”
“Not unless you’re related to no one at all.”
Dominic frowned, not understanding, and moved on. Rob felt a stab of guilt. They all spoke to him as if he knew the intimate details of her life—as if he had a lover’s right to them.
It’s none of your business, he told himself as he crossed the room to rejoin Twyla. She introduced him to a teacher and to the class treasurer, but he barely listened. She offered him another beer, but he shook his head no. What he wanted, whether or not it was wise, was to know just what had happened with her father, why he’d killed himself and why it made her reluctant to return to this town. She clearly had no inkling of his thoughts as she talked to friends and acquaintances, and he couldn’t let on that he knew.
His hands were quicker than his brain as they slid to either side of her waist and drew her back against him. She caught her breath but didn’t move away. Bending his head—that fragrant neck again—he said, “Feel like dancing some more?”
With cold self-contempt, he knew exactly why he wanted to dance with her. It was the only way he could legitimately touch her. And Lord, he wanted to touch her.
“Excuse us,” she said to the teacher and the class treasurer. Then she turned in his arms, smiling up at him. “You’re being an awfully good sport about this.”
“Am I?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t think anyone could ever guess it’s a mercy date.”
It’s not.
He hoped he wouldn’t break out into a sweat as he held her in his arms. The song was a vintage tango, the rhythm cool and slow. Twyla swayed against him, a good dancer, having fun in her ruby slippers. Halfway through the song, he lowered his head and whispered to her, “Let’s try a dip.”
“Right. You have no idea how to do that.”
“The hell I don’t. Ballroom dancing was a PE requirement at Lost Springs.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Scout’s honor. The Duncans were big on teaching us the social graces. Wanted to prepare us for anything life throws at us. I took dancing between karate and calf roping. What do you say?”
“You’ll drop me on my behind.”
“I can’t believe you don’t trust me. Listen. Here it comes.”
“Here what comes?”
“The dip music. It’s made for this kind of move. Ready?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Rob hoped memory would serve him correctly as the music slid dramatically to a high chord. Holding a forearm against the back of her waist, he planted his foot and leaned swiftly downward.
Startled, she gripped his shoulders and gave a little cry, though no one but him could hear it over the music. But she shouldn’t have worried. The move worked out perfectly, and the feel of her in his arms was unexpectedly gratifying. She was laughing by the time he brought her upright and swung her around.
“Very funny, Valentino,” she said.
“See? You should have trusted me.”
“I should have—” She stopped so suddenly he thought she was choking on something. She stood frozen on the dance floor, her stare fixed at some point over his shoulder, her face a stiff, white mask.
Rob steered her by the elbow to the sidelines. Following her gaze, he spotted a couple he had not seen earlier. They appeared in a dazzle of light from the foyer, a tall man and a slender woman, both of them extravagantly dressed and good-looking. Even before they made it all the way into the room, people flocked around them, hands waving in greeting, mouths smiling and speaking animatedly. The woman’s jewelry shimmered with an expensive gleam, and the man’s smile was practiced, sharp and sincere.
Twyla watched it all with the stiff-lipped shock he recalled seeing on patients when he had done his emergency medicine rotation.
“Don’t tell me,” Rob said to her. “Let me guess. Your ex-husband.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TWYLA FELT ROB’S hand pressing protectively against the small of her back, an echo of the way he had held her during the dance. But unlike that moment, when she had felt so vulnerable yet so safe in his arms, Twyla w
as in a free fall, and no one, not even Dr. Rob Carter, could save her now.
“I thought he was older than you,” he said.
“His wife graduated the same year as me.”
As she watched the man who had humiliated her seven years ago, she imagined feeling the rush of the wind over her overheated skin as she fell, spinning helplessly out of control. Dear Lord, what had she been thinking, coming here like this? Why had she thought she could survive a confrontation?
“Let’s go say hi,” Rob suggested, increasing the pressure of his hand.
“No.”
“Oh, yeah. We’re going to get it over with.”
“Let’s just leave.”
“With our tails between our legs? Sorry, honey. That’s not my style.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Spinelli’s got a small fortune riding on this. And if you don’t mind my saying so, the stakes are even higher for you.”
He took her by the hand and started across the room. She thought of pleading with him, turning boneless and sinking to the floor, shouting “fire” to clear the building, but all of those options would create a spectacle, and that was the last thing she needed.
“Please, Rob, please,” she said between her teeth. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
* * *
ROB STOPPED WALKING. “Twyla, there’s a lot you haven’t told me. We barely know each other.” And we’d better keep it that way.
He thought about what people had said about her father and grew cold inside. He was a pathologist, not Dr. Joyce Brothers. He had no idea how to deal with people who told him the deepest secrets of their hearts.
“I know all I need to know,” he said brusquely, and started walking again, her hand clutched tightly in his. “You can’t let yourself be intimidated by some horse’s ass.”
The man called Jake Barnard was just lifting a drink to his mouth when his wife spotted Twyla. Rob saw Beverly Barnard’s hand come up and give a smart tug on Jake’s sleeve. Discreetly moving his arm away from his wife, he looked across the room and spied Twyla.
His only reaction was to finish the drink and help himself to another from a passing waiter’s tray.
Rob could sense the tension in Twyla, and he suddenly felt cruel, forcing her into a situation she had been at great pains to avoid. But as he approached the square-jawed Jake and his willowy wife, his resolve firmed. Perhaps the meeting would clear away old scar tissue.
A few dozen gazes tracked their progress across the hall. Twyla did an admirable job ignoring them as she walked up to her ex-husband.
“Hello, Jake,” she said.
The guy was good at guarding his thoughts, but not that good, Rob observed. The instant he saw Twyla, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She was a knockout in every sense of the word.
Rob could just imagine what was going through Jake’s mind as he stood next to his pale, elegant wife and stared at his vibrant, gorgeous ex. You should have waited around for her, pal, he thought. But he was selfishly glad Jake had turned to his heiress instead.
“Hey, Twyla,” he said, visibly trying to get a grip. “Long time no see.”
“Uh-huh.” Her smile seemed frozen in place. “Jake Barnard, this is Rob Carter.”
“My wife,” Jake said, indicating with a nod. “Beverly.”
They shook hands all around. Rob noted that Jake had a firm, practiced grip and that Beverly’s hand was icy cold.
“We weren’t even going to come tonight,” she murmured. “But Willard Stokes insisted.” Her gaze coasted over Twyla. “Now I know why.”
“Let’s get caught up,” Jake suggested, leading the way to some benches at the side of the hall. “That’s what these things are for, right?” He finished another drink and turned to his wife. “Baby, go grab us a few beers, how about it?”
She hesitated, just for a beat, long enough for Rob to read the flicker of alarm in her eyes. Jake appeared to miss it completely as he sat down on a bench, spreading his arms wide in a comfortable, this-is-my-turf pose. Rob waited for Twyla to take a seat, then sat beside her. Beverly arrived with a tray of three beers and a mixed drink for herself.
Jake cracked his open. “A toast.”
“To what?” Twyla asked.
“Old acquaintances?”
“New acquaintances,” Rob said, and took a long drink. The beer felt cold and biting and incredibly welcome. “To my future with the finest woman in the West,” he added, feeling fiercely protective of Twyla.
She made a soft choking sound. Jake didn’t seem to notice. “What’ve you been up to, Twyla?” he asked. “You look incredible.”
She froze in the middle of lifting her beer to her lips. “Do you really want to do this here, Jake? Now?”
He laughed easily. “Guess not. Whatever the lady wants.”
Rob took another swig of beer, hoping to cool the fury burning inside him. This guy had abandoned Twyla and his own son. He hadn’t even bothered to ask about Brian.
“Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been up to,” Twyla suggested. “You were always so good at that.”
“Ouch.” Jake gave an exaggerated wince. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, eh, buddy?” He sent Rob a conspiratorial wink.
Rob stared him down. “Sweeter than a rose,” he stated.
“Okay, I’m game,” Jake said, ignoring Rob’s comment. “A few years of lawyering in Jackson. Then I got myself elected to the Congress of the good old U. S. of A.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you vote for me?”
“I don’t live in your district.”
As they talked, two things became instantly clear. Jake Barnard and his wife drank too much, too fast. And they despised each other. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, but the chilling truth lay before him. Perhaps it was in the stiffness of their postures or the cutting quality of the looks and remarks that passed between them. Or in the exhaustion apparent in Beverly’s eyes. She was a beautiful woman, but she lacked the expressive face of a woman secure with herself or in a relationship. There was a forced quality to her smiles, a veiled distaste in the way she regarded her husband.
This probably was, Rob deduced, one of those high-profile marriages that had never been founded on love and couldn’t withstand the demands of a U.S. congressman’s schedule.
He glanced over at Twyla, who seemed fascinated by Jake’s account of his first congressional race. Rob had an urge to shake her, to remind her that this was the guy who dumped her after she’d put him through law school. This was the guy who had turned his back on the son he’d never met. This was the guy who had soured her on men so that little old ladies had to force her to go on dates.
“I hear you’re a doctor.” Beverly plucked an olive out of her drink, held it between extra-long fingernails, and then ate it. “What sort of doctor are you?”
Funny. She was a martini drinker. Just like—“A pathologist,” he said quickly.
“I see.”
People never said much once he told them his specialty. After all, what was there to say? “Seen any good abnormal tissues lately?” She leaned back, probably fearful he’d start talking about Legionnaires’ disease or E. coli outbreaks. People rarely wanted to hear about what he did, which was one reason he liked his specialty. Other doctors were pressed with questions from those hoping for a quick street-corner consultation, but it rarely happened to Rob.
The weird thing was, he didn’t mind giving the occasional on-the-spot diagnosis. Didn’t mind looking into a person’s eyes rather than into a high-powered microscope.
“And you?” he asked, filling the long conversational pause.
“Full-time wife,” she said, “which is more work than you might think. The fund-raisers, the parties, the charity auctions.” She waved a long-suffering hand and seemed not to notice that his face reddened at the mention of an auction. “It runs me ragged sometimes, so you don’t want to hear about it.” She punctuated her statement with a deep swig of her
drink.
Rob caught himself looking at her shoes. Though he wasn’t one to notice a woman’s shoes, he noticed these, because only last week, Lauren had bought the same ones. They were fairly ordinary-looking shoes, although they had a little gold thing in the heel that was the mark of an Italian designer. He still wouldn’t have noticed, except that Lauren had been unwrapping the parcel while he was there, and the sales slip had fallen out.
Glancing at it, he’d felt his jaw unhinge. The price of those shoes could feed an indigent family for a month. And here were the same ones on the feet of a woman who bore an eerie resemblance to Lauren herself. Studying her, Rob got a glimpse of a future he didn’t want to see. Everything about this woman was correct—the clothes, the accent, the patina of expensive schooling. Everything that Rob had thought was important, significant, necessary for a successful life. And yet at the heart of it all, there was something essentially unhappy and incomplete about her.
Because she was married to a jerk?
That was probably a large part of it. But at one time, the jerk had been the sort of man Twyla McCabe wanted to marry. He must have had his brand of charm.
Rob finished his beer, wondering if he was going nuts, analyzing the marriage of strangers he would probably never see again. But deep in his gut lay the uncomfortable realization that he and Lauren were on a path similar to the one Jake and Beverly had taken. The high-profile socializing. The glitzy life. Living in the right place, owning the right things, driving the right car. From the outside, it looked like the American Dream. The one he had formulated by reading Forbes magazine because he had no family to teach him what really mattered.
Not for the first time, he felt a sick lurch of doubt. What if his idea of having it all was the wrong idea?
* * *
TWYLA PUSHED OPEN the door to the ladies’ room and let loose with an explosive sigh of relief. She had made it to the belly of the beast and so far she had survived. Amazing. She had been certain she wouldn’t be able to bear coming back here—much less face Jake—without breaking down.
She used the bathroom, then spent a long time at the sink, delving into her impossibly tiny red evening bag for whatever cosmetics she could find.