Her face hardened. “Oh, no, not you too.”
“What do you mean, not me too?”
“Just that every time I turn around lately somebody wants to know what I plan to do with the baby.”
“Who else?”
She considered telling him it was none of his business, but knew it was. “Mrs. Tollefson, the director of Horizons. She says her job is not to find babies for the babyless, but any way you slice it, that's what she does.”
“Are you planning to give it away, then?”
“I don't consider that anyone's business but my own.”
“Meaning, you're having trouble coming to a decision?”
“Meaning, I don't want you to be part of that decision.”
“Why?”
“Because you're not.”
“I'm the father.”
“You're the sire,” she said, impaling him with a stabbing look that matched her words. “There is a big difference.”
“Funny,” he said in some strangely colorless voice, “but it doesn't seem to make any difference when I think of it.”
“Are you saying you're suffering a fit of conscience?”
“That baby's mine. I can't just wipe it off the slate, even if I want to.”
“I knew this would happen if I saw you. That's why I didn't want to. I don't want any pressure from you to either keep the baby or give it away. The responsibility is mine. Anyway, what happened to the man who offered me money for an abortion?”
“You may recall that I was under a bit of duress at the time. It was a quick reaction. Whether or not I'd have wanted you to go through with it, I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to know what kind of person you are.”
“Well, I'm afraid I can't enlighten you, because I don't know what I'm going to do yet.”
“Good,” he said, surprising her.
The waitress arrived just then with two tall, skinny glasses of orange juice on the rocks.
Clay reached into an interior breast pocket, and Catherine automatically reached for her purse. But before she could retrieve her wallet Clay had laid a five-dollar bill on the tray.
“I want to pay for my own.”
“You're too late.”
The sight of his money being taken away unnerved her.
“I don't want . . .” But it was hard for her to explain what she didn't want.
“You don't want me buying orange juice for my baby?”
She stared at him, unblinking, trying to figure out her motives. “Something like that.”
“The cost of a glass of orange juice doesn't constitute a lifelong debt.”
“Skip it, okay? I feel you're infringing on me and I don't like it, that's all. Taking me out, buying me drinks. Just don't think it changes anything.”
“All right, I won't. But I'll reiterate something that does. Your father.”
“Have you told him—” she began accusingly.
“No, I haven't. He doesn't have any idea you're here. He thinks you're out in Omaha someplace. But he's been making a nuisance of himself in more ways than one, only he's sly enough to stop just short of getting pinned for anything. Now he's taken to sending his—shall we call them—emissaries around to the house occasionally to remind us that he's still waiting for a payoff.”
“I thought he came himself.”
“That was only the first time. There've been others.”
“Oh, Cl—” She stopped herself from uttering his name, began again. “I—I'm sorry. What can we do about it?”
He was very much his lawyer-father's son as he leaned toward her, outlining the situation, his eyes intense, his expression grave. “I am a third-year law student, Catherine. I've worked very hard to get where I am, and I intend to graduate and be admitted to the bar this summer. Unfortunately, I also have to prove I'm morally upstanding. If your father continues his vendetta and it gets to the Board of Examiners that I've fathered a bastard, it could have serious repercussions. That's why we haven't pressed charges against your father so far. And while it has not been stated explicitly, it has been implied that even should I pass and be accepted to the bar, my father may deny me a place in the family practice if I've shirked my responsibility to you. Meanwhile, my mother walks around the house looking like I've just kicked her in a broken leg. Your father wants money. You want your whereabouts to remain unknown. People are pressuring you to give up the baby. A bunch of pregnant teenage girls see you as their hope for the future. What do you think we can do about it?”
The glass stopped halfway to her open, gleaming lips. “Now just a min—”
“Before you get angry, hear me out.”
“Not if you say what I think you're going to say.”
“It's a business proposition.”
“I don't want to hear it.”
Her face became highly colored and her hand shook. She turned her cheek sharply away, not quite hiding it behind a hand.
“Drink your orange juice, Catherine. Maybe it will cool you down and make you listen to reason. I propose that you marry me and we'll—”
“You're crazy!” she snapped, dumbfounded.
“Maybe,” he said coolly, “maybe not.”
She tried to push her chair back but he deftly hooked one foot around its leg, guessing she was preparing to bolt.
“You're really one for running out on unpleasantness, aren't you?”
“You're mad! Sitting there suggesting that we get married! Get your foot off my chair.”
“Sit down,” he ordered. “You're making a spectacle again.”
A quick perusal told her he was right.
“Are you adult enough to sit here and discuss this levelheadedly, Catherine? There are at least a dozen sensible reasons for us to get married. If you'll give me a chance, I'll delineate them, starting with your father . . .”
That, above all, made her ease back into her chair.
“Are you saying he's caused you to get beaten up more than once?”
“Never mind. The point is, I'm beginning to understand why you vowed never to see him benefit from this situation. He's not exactly what I'd call ideal father-in-law material, but I'd take him as a temporary one rather than give him what he wants. If you and I marry, he'll be forced to give up his harassment. And even if the Board of Examiners somehow learns that a baby is due, it won't throw a shadow on my reputation if you and I are already married. I know now that what you said is true—your father is not really interested in your welfare as much as he is in his own. But my parents are.
“I feel like a juvenile delinquent every time my mother throws those censuring looks at me. And for some ungodly reason, my father is right in there with her. They're feeling . . .” He glanced up briefly, then down at his glass “. . . they're feeling like grandparents, reacting as such. They want to keep the baby in the family. They've taken a stand they won't back down from. And as for me, I won't bore you with my emotional state. Suffice it to say that it bothers me immeasurably to think of the baby being given up for adoption.”
“I didn't say I was going to.”
“No, you didn't. But what will you do if you keep it? Live on welfare in some roach-infested apartment house someplace? Give up school?” Again he leaned both forearms on the table, accosting her with his too-handsome, Nordic features set in an expression of worry. “I'm not asking you to consider marrying me without getting something out of it. When I saw you crossing the campus the other day, I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't know you were a student there. What are you using for money?”
She didn't answer; she didn't need to for him to know finances were tight for her.
“It's going to take you some time to get through, isn't it? Even without the baby?”
Again, no answer.
“Suppose . . . just suppose we marry, agreeing in advance that it will be only until I finish school and take my bar exams. Your father will leave both of us alone; you'll be able to keep the baby; I'll be able to get my Juris Doctor; I'll be taken into my father's practice. Wh
en that happens you'll have your turn, and I'll pay for your schooling and for the child's support. That's my proposition. From now until July, that's all. And six months after that we'll have our divorce. I can easily handle it, and it is far less damaging to a career than a bastard child.”
“And who keeps the baby?”
“You do,” he answered without hesitation. “But at least I won't lose track of him and I'll see to it that neither he nor you ever has any financial worries. You can keep the baby and finish school too. What could be more sensible?”
“And what can be more dishonest?”
A look of exasperation crossed his face, but she knew that rankled, for he sat back in his chair and studied the lights across the river in a distracted fashion. She went on.
“You told me once that your father is the most exasperatingly honest person you know. What will he and your mother think when they learn their son has deceived them?”
“Why do they have to learn? If we do it, you'll have to agree never to tell them.”
“Oh,” she tossed out casually, knowing her remark was barbed, “so you don't want them to know you're a liar.”
“I'm not a liar, Catherine. For God's sake, be reasonable.” But he ran his fingers through his perfect hair and came forward on his chair again. “I'd like to finish law school and become part of my father's business. Is that so awful? That's the way we've always planned it to be, only now he seems to have lost reason.”
She mused a while, then toyed with her glass. “You never had to worry about your ship coming in, did you?”
“And you resent that?”
“Yes, I suppose in a way I do.”
“Enough to reject my offer?”
“I don't think I could do it.”
“Why?” He leaned forward entreatingly.
“It would require acting talent that I don't possess.”
“Not for long. About a year.”
“At the risk of sounding hypocritical, I have to say it: your parents seem like decent and honest people and it would not settle well with me to hoodwink them just to make things easier for myself.”
“All right, I admit it. It's not honest, and that bothers me too. I'm not in the habit of lying to them, no matter what you might think. But I don't think they're being totally honest, either, by taking the stand they've taken. They're forcing me to own up to my responsibilities, and I am. But, like you, I have a certain kind of life mapped out for myself, and I don't want to give it up because of this.”
“There simply is no way I would marry someone I don't love. I've had a bellyful of living in a house where two people hated each other.”
“I'm not asking you to love me. All I want is for you to think sensibly about the benefits we'd both derive from the arrangement. Let's backtrack a minute and consider one question which still needs answering. Do you want to give the baby up for adoption?”
He was leaning toward her now quite beseechingly. She studied the glass within his long, lean fingers, unwilling to look into his eyes for fear he might convince her of something she did not want.
“That's not fair and you know it,” she spoke in a strained voice, “not after what I told you about the girls and my conversation with Mrs. Tollefson.”
He sensed her weakening and pressed on. “None of this is, is it? I'm no different than you, Catherine, no matter what you might think. I don't want that baby living with strangers, wondering for the rest of my life where he is, what he is, who he is. I'd like to at least know that he's with you, and that he's got everything he needs. Is that such a bad bargain?”
Like a recording she repeated what Mrs. Tollefson had said, hoping to shore up her defenses. “It's a well-known fact that adopted children are exceptionally bright, happy and successful.”
“Who told you that, your social worker?”
Her eyes flashed to his. How easily he can read me, she thought. The waitress approached, and without asking Catherine, Clay signaled to order two more orange juices, more to get rid of the interference than because he was thirsty. He watched the top of Catherine's hair as she toyed with her glass. “Could you really give it up?” he asked softly.
“I don't know,” she admitted raggedly.
“My mother was decimated when she found out you were gone. I never saw her cry in my life, but then I did. She didn't have to mention the word abortion more than once for me to know it was on her mind night and day. I guess I learned some things about my parents and myself since this thing happened.”
“It's so dishonest,” she said lamely. Then after long silence, she asked, “When are the bar exams?” She could not quite believe what she was asking.
“I don't know the exact date yet, but sometime in July.”
She rested her forehead against her hand, as if unutterably tired of everything.
Suddenly he felt obliged to reassure her so he reached for her arm, which lay disconsolately on the tabletop. She didn't even try to resist the small squeeze he gave it.
“Think it over,” he said quietly.
“I don't want to marry you, Clay,” she said, raising her sad, beautiful eyes to him, a pinched expression about their corners.
“I know. I'm not expecting it to be a regular marriage, with all the obligations. Only as a means to what we both want.”
“And you'd start divorce proceedings immediately after the exams and you wouldn't use some clever tricks to get the baby away from me?”
“I would treat you fairly, Catherine. I give you my word.”
“Would we live together?” Her eyelids flickered; she looked aside.
“In the same place, but not together. It would be necessary for my family to think we were married in more than name only.”
“I feel utterly exhausted,” she admitted.
Some musicians filed in, turned on some dim stage lights and began tuning up their guitars.
“There's not much more to be said tonight”—Clay fiddled with the table edge a moment—”only that I'd keep out of your way if you marry me. I know you don't like me, so I won't push anything like that.”
“I don't dislike you, Clay. I hardly know you.”
“I've given you plenty of good reason though, haven't I? I've gotten you pregnant, offered you abortion money, and now I'm suggesting a scheme to get us out of it.”
“And am I so lily-white?” she asked. “I'm actually thinking it over.”
“You'll consider it then?”
“You don't have to ask. Against my better judgment, I already am.”
They drove back to Horizons in silence. As he pulled the car to a stop at the curb, Clay said, “I could come and pick you up at the same time tomorrow night.”
“Why don't you just call?”
“There are too many inquisitive ears around here.”
She knew he was right, and though it was difficult for her to be with Clay, neither did she want to give him her answer with an audience around the corner. “Okay, I'll be ready.”
He let the engine run, got out and came around to open her door, but by the time he got there she was already stepping out of the car. He politely closed the door for her.
“You don't have to do all these things, you know, like opening doors and pulling out chairs. I don't expect it.”
“If I didn't, would it make you feel better?” They walked toward the porch steps.
“I mean, you don't have to pretend it's that real.”
“Force of habit,” he said.
Under the garish light of the porch she at last dared to look directly into his face.
“Clay.” She tested the word fully upon her tongue. “I know you've gone with a girl named Jill Magnusson for a long time.” Catherine struggled to find a way to say what was on her mind, but found she couldn't say it.
He stood still as a statue, his expression void, unreadable. Then he reached for the screen door, opened it and said, “You'd better go in now.”
He turned on a heel, took the steps in one leap an
d ran to the car. As she watched the tail lights disappear up the street she felt, for the first time in her pregnancy, like throwing up.
Chapter 9
The following day was one of those flawless Indian summer days in Minnesota which are like an assault on the senses. The warmth returned, dormant flies reawakened, the sky was deep azure, and the campus crimson and gold was vivid as autumn color peaked. It was October; new match-ups had been made, and to Catherine it seemed the entire population of the University moved in pairs. She found herself captivated by the sight of a male and a female hand with their fingers entwined, swinging between two pairs of hips. Without her consent her mind formed a picture of Clay Forrester's clean, lean hands on the wheel, and she wiped her damp palm on her thigh. She passed a couple kissing in the entrance to Tate Lab. The boy had his hand inside the girl's jacket just above her back waistline. Unable to tear her eyes away, Catherine watched his hand emerge from under the garment, then pass along the girl's ribs as the two parted, went their separate ways. She remembered Clay's words, not a regular marriage with all the obligations, and though that's what she, too, insisted it must be, there were goosebumps on her flesh. In the late afternoon, on her way home, she spotted a couple sitting on the grass Indian style, face-to-face, studying. Without taking his eyes from his book, the boy absently ran his hand up inside the girl's pantleg to her knee. And something female prickled down low inside of Catherine.
But I'm pregnant, she thought, and Clay Forrester doesn't love me. Still, that didn't make the prickly longing disappear.
Back at Horizons Catherine carefully changed clothes, though casually enough so as not to appear seductive. But when her makeup was complete, she looked closely in the mirror. Why had she reconstructed last night's careful shadings and highlights? Subtle mauve shadow above her eyes, a faint hint of peach below them, sandy brown mascara, apricot cheeks, glistening cinnamon lips to match her nails. She told herself it had nothing to do with Clay Forrester's proposal.
Turning from the dresser, Catherine found Francie waiting hesitantly in the doorway, wearing the first suggestion of a smile Catherine had seen upon her face. In silence, Francie extended the bottle of Charlie.