A Woman's Choice

by Rita Clay Estrada

She could feel Sam's presence near her, and that alone gave her a sense of peace she hadn't known for years. It reminded her of their first night together, when he had held her in his arms all night so she could sleep.

  She dreamed again.

  Her moans tried to escape her throat but nothing happened. Her throat had closed up on her and she couldn't utter a sound. She ran, ducking and weaving through the tenement's narrow, garbage-filled alleys. Her lungs hurt, her breathing was sharp as broken glass. Someone was following, gaining on her. They ran with long strides that pounded into the pavement and echoed in her head. She ducked, then took off again, weaving in and out of the alleys that made her home.

  Suddenly arms encased her, stopping her frantic movements and she panicked. "No!"

  "Shhh. It's all right." Sam's voice entered and passed through the fog of the nightmare to pull her slowly but steadily to the safety of his arms, his bedroom. "You're with me, Catherine. You're safe," he crooned as he rocked her against his chest to shoo away whatever had frightened her so. His hands gently rubbed her back, soothing her almost as much as his low voice.

  Her still-trembling hand came up to cup his jaw. Her eyes strained through the darkness to see his face. It took a moment to focus, then she saw him. His wonderful, rugged, lean face, so full of love and honesty.

  He smiled and suddenly the room wasn't dark anymore. His lips parted to show even white teeth. "Is the trembling because of me, or is it the dream?" he asked quietly, but there was a hint of teasing in his voice.

  "The dream," she whispered.

  "Damn. I was hoping you were finally succumbing to my charms." His voice still held a teasing note, but she could feel the truth of his words.

  "Why?" she asked slowly. Her dreams were behind her now, disappearing quickly as they usually did when she awoke. Now there was Sam in front of her, holding her, and he was real. He was needed.

  "Because I think you're pretty special, lady, and I'd like you to think the same about me."

  She tilted her head, her eyes finally adjusting to the dim light the opened bedroom door allowed entrance. "I don't know what to make of you, Sam Lewis. You've never reacted the way I expect most men to act. Do you do the unexpected on purpose?"

  "Always," was his prompt reply. "It keeps the women on their toes."

  "And allows you to waltz them into this bedroom long enough for you to make love to them and let them use your stash of toothbrushes," she finished for him, a bitter note entering her voice.

  "Before, yes."

  "Before what?"

  His eyes searched hers. His pulse was beating strongly against her palm as it rested on his neck. "Before you," he said simply and honestly.

  His directness unnerved her. "Sam, hold me," she whispered, feeling a deep chill settle into her bones. She didn't want to leave him, and yet the need she felt for him, the same need that had kept her here, frightened her. It frightened her more than the burglar in her home or the thought of her too demanding career…

  Sunday passed with such peace and contentment—both of them putting aside any arguments that could disrupt the tranquility—that it took everything Sam had to pull himself into the office on Monday. It was especially hard for him since the morning had bloomed as if God gave only one good day a year, and this was it. There was no smog, no heavy humid wind, no burning high temperature. It was just right.

  Nevertheless, Sam left for work at his usual time, warning Catherine against answering the phone, preferring the answering service to do so unless he gave her a signal, two short rings, which meant he'd hang up then call again. Even though she promised to follow his instructions, he was worried. After the toothbrush episode, he didn't need for her to find anything else wrong with him. And the women who might call would probably be only too happy to set Catherine straight as far as his love life was concerned. Catherine was already balking at being in his home, he didn't need anything negative to happen now.

  He had come up with one or two more reasons to de-lay his departure, but when he saw the twinkle in Catherine's eyes, he knew she'd seen through him and left without another word.

  But after an hour at the office he still hadn't accomplished anything. He realized that he should be working, but there wasn't a bone in his body that wanted to make a move toward that direction. His thoughts were completely absorbed with Catherine. Staring at the wall in front of his desk, he twisted paper clip after paper clip into a work of art, discarding each, then beginning again. The files on the corner of his desk remained undisturbed.

  "I see you're really whipping through your cases this morning, counselor." Brenda stood in the doorway, her bright teasing smile pulling one from him. "Everything all right?"

  "Fine," he said, still twisting the wire in his hand. "If you can call one disaster after another 'fine'."

  "Anything I can do to help? Would you like to dictate some answers to a few of the letters you received in the mail?" she prompted. Ignoring disasters was her favorite thing.

  "No way," he said, finally throwing another paper clip in the trash. His brow furrowed. "Brenda, how hard would it be to get this week off? Is my schedule crowded or can things be postponed?" He stood as if suddenly making a decision. "Is April in? Do I have to be in court?"

  Brenda tilted her head to one side as she thought, then, as if to confirm, she reached toward his desk and flipped his personal calendar quickly as her mind flew to her own work load. "April's not in, she's in court with a palimony case. Your schedule is light compared to next week. With the exception of a lunch on Wednesday with Leo Coulter, which I suppose you could cancel, and a meeting on Thursday, everything can be moved. You have no court cases this week." She placed her hip against the desk and watched him pace, a small frown on her face.

  "Good. I need, no, deserve a week off. Do that for me, please?" He grinned at the thought of having the week with Catherine. In fact, he felt better already, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

  "Sure, but…" She hesitated a moment, her hazel eyes showing indecision. "Will you tell April?"

  "Yes," he said, still grinning. Knowing that April would never hurt a fly, it was a mystery to him why Brenda never even wanted to look as if she were crossing her. "Did April give you a hard time last week?"

  Brenda shrugged. "No, but she's been highs and lows for several days. First she walks around with a smile on her face, then she begins crying over the slightest thing. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was pregnant."

  Sam's face showed his surprise. "Pregnant?"

  "Yes, you know. A little Jace Sullivan dangling on Uncle Sam's knees." Brenda grinned.

  "I know, but I doubt if that's the trouble. April never said a thing about it."

  "Oh, and of course she would discuss it with you, Sam. She would have raced to your home, intruded upon your houseguest and told you about it immediately." She hesitated just a fraction of a second before she inquired, "You do have a guest in your house?"

  "Yes." He waited.

  "Don't you think you might enjoy getting out and having some time for yourself?"

  "Exactly. That's why I want this week off. I want to show Catherine some of California."

  Brenda's brows rose. "In less than three days' time?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The locksmith called this morning and said that he'd be finished with Catherine Sinclair's house by Wednesday night, so she'd be able to go home then."

  Sam turned to the window to gaze down at the street scene below. Cars passed back and forth on the streets, people hurried along, not even paying attention to the wonderful weather. He wanted to be like Dorothy and click his heels and be home with Catherine. "That's fine, Brenda. I'll tell her." Later. Much later.

  "Sam, is everything all right?" She couldn't ignore the obvious. This wasn't the usual Sam. "Are you sick?"

  "No. Yes. Hell, I don't know." He turned and looked at her with eyes filled with sadness and indecision. "I'm in love and I'm damned if I know w
hat to do about it." He shook his head as he stared at his highly polished shoes. "It's all wrong. She's the wrong woman for me and I'm definitely the wrong man for her. And to top it all off, this is the wrong time!"

  Comprehension filled Brenda's eyes. "So that's it!" She grinned knowingly from ear to ear. "I knew the day would come when you'd fall in love, I just didn't realize it would be this hard on you. But you deserve it, Sam Lewis. You deserve every little painful bit of it!"

  "Me?" His surprised tone made Brenda smile even more. "What did I ever do to deserve going through this hell?"

  "You flitted through life as if you were the only bee and every woman was a flower just waiting to cross-pollinate. Now the tables have turned."

  His face resembled a thundercloud. "Maybe, but if this is what love is supposed to be like, then it's sadly overrated," he growled.

  "Yup, it's love all right," Brenda confirmed unnecessarily to the room.

  "And I don't deserve it," Sam continued, ignoring her statement. "I never hurt anyone. In fact, I think I gave as much pleasure as they did."

  Brenda groaned. "Not only is it love, it's also a man speaking. No one else could be so conceited."

  He glared at her. "Have you ever heard any complaints?"

  "Yes, plenty. All from women who wanted the secret to your heart. They were more anxious about trying to please you than you pleasing them. You'd be amazed at the free lunches I get from women hoping to pump more information about you out of me."

  "That's because I pleased them, not in spite of it," Sam corrected her.

  She shrugged. "Okay. But I still say it's time. By the way, who's the 'lucky' woman?"

  He hesitated only a moment before giving her a challenging look. "Catherine Sinclair."

  Brenda's expression was one of deep shock, Her mouth opened, her jaw moved, but no sound came forth. Finally she spoke. "My God, there's no chance in the world it will work." Her voice was a hoarse whisper, reflecting her awe of the complications she saw ahead.

  Sam grunted, then turned and began pacing the room. It wasn't exactly the response he had expected, but he certainly wouldn't probe it. Better that he keep his own council right now than listen to Brenda give him instructions on love and its pitfalls. He saw enough of them without her help.

  "You don't even make as much money in a year as she does in a month. She'll have you changing careers, changing life-styles. Changing, period."

  He ignored that remark.

  "Just get me out of my appointments for the week, Brenda, and when April calls, tell her she can reach me at home."

  Brenda nodded then carefully closed the door behind her. There were messes and then there were messes, but this was the biggest one she had seen.

  Sam was usually a great boss. The work load was sporadic, either feast or famine, but Sam often helped her beyond the normal boss-secretary relationship. She admired him for caring, she liked him for sharing, and she enjoyed his escapades with women. He deserved more than Catherine Sinclair. Much more. Sam didn't know it, but he was really the type to have a comfortable home life with lots of kids and a doting wife. He wasn't the glamorous, Hollywood, jet-set type that Catherine was. He could never be.

  But then she wasn't one to give advice, either. She had already loused up her own life by marrying a man who didn't really believe in marriage. Five years and three children later, he finally found the woman of his dreams…someone else's very wealthy and better-looking wife.

  Sam dialed his home number quickly, hung up, then dialed again. At her sexy-voiced hello, his stomach tensed. His heartbeat sped up to double time. He had to play it cool. "Catherine? How are things going?" He cursed himself for sounding so much like a juvenile. What a stupid opening!

  "Just fine. Do you mind if I use up your flour? You don't have much left and I wanted to try my hand at some baking…" Her voice drifted off when she didn't hear his affirmation.

  He cleared his throat, forgetting for a moment that he had to answer, getting lost in the images that her voice created. "That sounds great. By the way, I'm taking the rest of the day off so I'll be home in a couple of hours."

  Her voice sounded relieved. "Wonderful. We'll talk about it when you get home."

  "Fine," he clipped, almost afraid to say more. "See you then."

  Visions of Catherine in his kitchen filled him with joy. She had said that she would see him at home! Their home, he thought with great satisfaction.

  Three hours later Sam slipped the key to his door in the lock. He was almost afraid to open it in case Catherine had decided to leave. Despite his bravado, his thoughts were constantly projected toward losing her before he proved to her that his love was enough for both of them. He'd be good for her, he knew it. He'd make himself good for her.

  The house was permeated with the scent of spices and mouth-watering dishes. She must have been cooking all morning. He leaned against the front door savoring the smell.

  "Sam? Is that you?" Catherine came to the kitchen door, her eyes bright. A dash of flour streaked one cheek, a delightful smile tilted her mouth becomingly.

  "Yes," he said, more affected by her presence than he could ever hope to contain. He swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in his throat.

  Catherine stepped into the hallway, a wooden spoon in one hand. She was wearing a pair of white shorts and a pale green top, and looked sophisticated and charming. And heart-stoppingly beautiful. "Are you all right?"

  He couldn't speak; he just nodded his head. How could he tell her how wonderful it was to come home from work and find her here? How very right her being here was? He couldn't find the words. He silently held out his arms.

  Without a second's hesitation, she was in them, her arms wrapped around his waist, her head resting against his chest.

  They were both home.

  Dinner was quiet but delicious. Catherine had made a pot roast with potatoes and carrots and a large tossed salad. For dessert she had baked a large coffee cake with raisins and nuts and cinnamon. They drank iced tea laced with fresh mint.

  Sam leaned back, replete, a small smile of contentment etching his mouth in a fascinating way. "Tell me about you," he coaxed, watching her relax.

  "Nothing much to tell." Her hand twisted around the glass but her eyes never looked up at him.

  "Tell."

  "I love to cook, read romances and mysteries, sing, and vacuum."

  His brows rose. "Vacuum? I didn't know it was considered a hobby."

  "It's the most relaxing one. You push and pull a thing across the floor and it does the work while your mind blanks out."

  "Do you do this very often?"

  "When I'm on vacation, I could do it at least five times a day and not be satisfied. Now your turn. What are you like?"

  "I love to read romances and mysteries, sing off tune and sit in a hot-tub."

  She chuckled. "Do you read romances to give you new ideas?"

  "No, just to help me figure out the female mind," he countered. "Do you read mysteries to give you new ideas?"

  "Yes. Since most heros in mysteries are men, I'm trying to figure out the logic behind the male mind," she answered. Her brow furrowed. "But you don't have a hot-tub."

  "I know. If I had one I'd probably never get to work, so I visit friends and borrow theirs." He remembered what Brenda said today about his lack of money and he quickly reassured her. "I could afford one, I just know that I wouldn't be as productive with it around."

  "I see," Catherine murmured slowly. "Does that mean that you supply those who allow you the use of their hot-tub the prize of a spanking new toothbrush in the color of their choice?"

  "Never mind," he muttered, taking a swig of his iced tea. He glanced down at his glass and then back at Catherine. "Would you mind if I had a glass of wine?" His look was innocent enough, but she could tell he was waiting for her reaction.

  "Of course not," she said calmly. "I'm not a drinker so I don't always remember that others might like it." She gave him her best smile.


  But he persisted. "Do you not like the taste or is it against your religion?"

  "Neither." Her smile was drooping and she knew it, but she valiantly kept up the attempt, hoping he would drop the subject.

  "Then why?"

  Her first thought was to tell him it was none of his business, but she knew that wouldn't work. Besides, he had always been honest with her and for some reason— which she didn't want to examine under a microscope-she wanted to be equally honest with him. His was a natural curiosity. What harm could it do to tell? "My parents were alcoholics. I guess I'm afraid that I'll take after them. The easiest way to avoid it is not to drink at all."

  "Did you ever drink?"

  She nodded slowly, her mind flitting back over the years while she was struggling with her public life and her private love. "Yes. And made a big fool of myself every time by doing things I never would have normally done. Then one day I woke up and said 'no more'."

  "And turned over a new leaf."

  She grinned. "A trite saying, but yes."

  "Was this long ago?"

  "Are you a psychiatrist?"

  Now it was his turn to grin sheepishly. "No, just a very interested male trying to learn what makes a very interesting female tick."

  "Then read another romance," she said. "As women go, we're all pretty much the same."

  "Touché," he murmured; lifting his glass of tea. Suddenly he had lost his taste for wine. But he hadn't lost his taste for Catherine. If anything, his hunger had grown all day until it filled him like a muted ache in the pit of his stomach, flowing through his body like warm, sweet, maple syrup.

  After dinner, Sam took her through the neighborhood, walking slowly, talking slower, both enjoying the sunset as they meandered along the sidewalk. He took her arm when they crossed streets, guided her when they turned corners, but that was the extent of his contact with her. He wasn't sure if he was punishing himself or her, but it was exquisite torture. They spoke occasionally, but the silences were just as sweet.

  Once they stopped to watch a group of neighborhood children making a parade. Wagons, bikes and trikes were adorned with streamers and their respective owners were decked out in their parents' old, cast-off clothing. A young boy in his father's old suit with a knotted tie around his neck and dangling over his small bare chest, tipped his hat and gave a wide grin.