Catherine forced a bright smile of her own. “Why, thank you, I was just coming to get it.” The perfume followed the makeup, and a moment later Marie came in to say Clay had arrived.
When Catherine came downstairs, there was a first awkward moment while they each scanned the other's clothes and faces, that too-meaningful assessment making her heart thud heavily.
He was wearing navy blue trousers this time, stylishly pleated, and a V-neck sweater of pale blue lambswool. Beneath was an open collar, short tips clearly stating it was this season's style. He wore a simple gold chain around his neck, and it seemed to accent the golden hue of his skin. Admitting how utterly in vogue Clay always dressed, and how it pleased her, Catherine wondered for the hundredth time that day if she were doing the right thing.
There was a feeling of unreality about walking out before him, passing through the door he held open, feeling him behind her shoulder as they took the porch steps and walked toward the car. She battled to submerge the feelings of familiarity which were already cropping up: the way he leaned sideways from the hip when he opened her car door, the hug of the bucket seat as she slid in, the sound of his footsteps coming around the car, his own peculiar movements as he settled into his seat. Then once again the smell of his shaving lotion in the confined space, and all of those thrice-noticed motions of a man and his car: already she knew just in which order he would do them, wrist over wheel as he started the engine, the unnecessary touch on the rearview mirror, the single shrug and forward jut of his head as he made himself comfortable, the way he left his hand on the stick of the floor shift as the Corvette pulled away from the curb. He was driving sensibly tonight. Instead of the tape deck, the radio was on this time, softly, voices proclaiming musically that they were tuned to KS-ninety-five. Then, without warning, The Lettermen began singing, “Well, I think I'm going out of my head . . .” And Clay just drove. And Catherine just sat. Each of them wanting to reach over and turn the song off. Neither of them daring. Lights coming, going, flashing, waning while the car moved through the mellow Indian summer night, its engine cooing along on a note as rich as any coming from The Lettermen, whose song finally reached its medley stage and wove its way into words that were even worse: “You're just too good to be true . . . can't take my eyes off of you . . .”
Catherine thought she would do anything for some wildly pulsating disco! But she found she could not give credence to the meaningful words coming from the radio, so she braved it out until the song ended. When it had, Clay asked her a single question.
“Did the girls do all that to you tonight?”
But with the suggestive song ended, she'd regained control of her senses. There was no reason to lie. “No.”
He gave her a sidelong look, then tended to his driving again.
She somehow guessed where they would go. She needn't know the exact route to be sure of the destination. He drove as if it were predetermined, out onto the Interstate, under the tunnel and west on Wayzata Boulevard to Highway 100, then south toward Edina. Again the unwanted feeling of familiarity crept over her. She had a sudden desperate hope that she might be wrong, that he'd choose to drive to some other place, thus avoiding the establishment of further familiarities. But he did not.
The wooded trail wound up into the park, taking them to the same secluded spot as that first night. He stopped at the top of the gravel road and switched off the engine but left the radio playing softly. Outside it was full dark, but the vague light from the dash illuminated his profile as he entwined his fingers behind the steering wheel and distractedly tapped a thumb upon it in time to the music.
Panic clawed its way up her throat.
At last he turned, propping his left elbow on top of the wheel. “Have you . . . have you thought about it any more or decided anything?”
“Yes.” The lone syllable sounded strained.
“Yes, you've thought about it, or yes, you'll marry me?”
“Yes, I'll marry you,” she clarified, with no hint of joy in her voice. She answered instead with a throb of regret tumbling her stomach. She wished he would not study her so and wondered if he was feeling as hollow as she was at that moment. She wanted to get out of the car and run down the gravel hill again. But where would she run? To what?
“Then we might as well work out a few details as soon as possible.”
His businesslike tone thrust her back to reality.
“I suppose you don't want to waste any time?”
“Considering you're three months pregnant already, no I don't. I don't suppose you do either?”
“N-no,” she lied, dropping her eyes to her lap.
A short, nervous laugh escaped him. “What do you know about weddings?”
“Nothing.” She gazed at him helplessly.
“Neither do I. Are you willing to go and talk to my parents?”
“Now?” She hadn't expected it so soon.
“I thought we might.”
“I'd rather not.” In the dim light she looked panic-stricken.
“Well, what do you want to do then, elope?”
“I hadn't given it much thought.”
“I'd like to go talk to them. Do you mind?”
What else could she do? “We'll have to face them sooner or later, I guess.”
“Listen, Catherine, they're not ogres. I'm sure they'll help us.”
“I have no illusions about what they must think of me and of my family. They can't be martyrs enough to be willing to forget all that my father has done. Can you blame me for being less than anxious to face them?”
“No.”
They sat there thinking about it for a while. But neither of them knew the first thing about planning a wedding of any kind.
“My mother will know what to do.”
“Yeah, like throw me out.”
“You don't know her, Catherine. She's going to be happy.”
“Sure,” she replied sullenly.
“Well, relieved then.”
But still they sat, aware of the sharp contrast between what was happening and what should be happening at a time like this.
Finally Catherine sighed. “Well, let's get it over with then.”
Clay started the car abruptly. He took them back down the twisting streets, through the rolling neighborhoods of elegant lawns whose breadth spoke of estates rather than lots. She heard the unfamiliar sound of tires on cobblestone as they swept up the curve and stopped before that massive pair of front doors she had once studied so critically from inside. They cowed her now, but she made up her mind not to let it show.
Following Catherine to the house, Clay found himself thinking of Jill Magnusson, and how it should be her going with him to speak to his parents.
The foyer assaulted Catherine with memories of the last time she'd been here: the way Clay had come breezing in and the scene that had followed. She found herself before the mirror, glanced quickly away from his regarding eyes and stopped her hand from touching a wisp of hair that was out of place. Disarmingly, he read her thoughts.
“You look fine. . . . Come on.” And he took her elbow.
Angela looked up as they approached the study door. The sight of them stirred her warmest blood, made it race crazily at their unexpected arrival. They were like a pair of sunchildren, both of them blond, tall and strikingly beautiful. Nobody had to tell Angela Forrester how beautiful a child of theirs would be.
“Are we interrupting anything?” Clay asked. His father glanced up from something he'd been working on at his desk. Everything in the room marked time for that interminable moment while they all allowed the surprise to run its course. Then Angela unwound her ankles in slow motion and removed a pair of reading glasses. Claiborne rose, halfway at first, as if stunned. He and Angela stared at Catherine, and she felt the blood whipping up her neck and fought the urge to duck behind Clay.
At last he spoke. “I think it's time you all met properly. Mother, Father, this is Catherine Anderson. Catherine, my parents.”
> And yet, for a painful moment more, the room remained a Still Life With Parents and Children.
Then Angela moved. “Hello, Catherine,” she said, reaching out a flawless, jeweled hand.
Immediately Catherine sensed that Angela Forrester, like the girls at Horizons, was an ally. This woman wants me to marry her son, she thought, amazed.
But when Claiborne Forrester emerged from around his desk, it was with a less-welcoming mien, although he extended his hand and greeted Catherine, also. But where Angela's touch had been a warm peace offering, there exuded from her husband a coolness much the same as the other time Catherine had been in this room.
“So you found her, Clay,” the older man noted unnecessarily.
“Yes, several days ago.”
Angela and Claiborne looked at each other, then quickly away.
“Several days ago. Well . . .” But the word dangled there, leaving everything awkward again. “We're glad you've changed your mind and come back to talk things over a little more sensibly. Our first meeting was, well, shall we say, less than ideal.”
“Father, could we forego the obvious recrim—”
“No, it's all right,” Catherine interrupted.
“I think we'd all better sit down.” Angela motioned toward the loveseat where she'd been sitting. “Catherine, please.” Clay followed and sat down beside her. His parents took the chairs beside the fireplace.
Although her stomach was twitching, Catherine spoke calmly. “We thought it best to come and talk to you immediately.”
The eagle's frown was there upon Mr. Forrester's face, just as Catherine remembered it.
“Under the circumstances, I should certainly think so,” the man said.
Clay edged forward as if to respond, but Catherine hurried to speak first. “Mr. Forrester, I understand that my father has been here more than just once. I want to apologize for his behavior, both the night I was with him and any other times when I wasn't. I know how irrational he can be.”
Claiborne grudgingly found himself admiring the girl's directness. “I assume Clay has told you we have refrained from pressing charges.”
“Yes, he has. I'm sorry that's what you decided. I can only say I had nothing to do with his actions and hope you'll believe me.”
Again Claiborne felt an unwanted twitch of admiration at the girl's straightforward manner. “We, of course, know that Clay offered you money, and that you refused his offer. Have you changed your mind?”
“I haven't come here asking for money. Clay told me you haven't paid my father anything he demanded, but I'm not here pleading his case, if that's what you think. I never intended for any of it to happen. That night I came here I had already made plans to run away from home and make it look like I was headed across the country where he couldn't catch up with me. I thought when I was gone he'd leave you alone. If any of it could have been avoided by my staying, I'm sorry.”
“I make no pretense of liking your father or of excusing him, but I must admit I'm relieved Clay found you so this mess can get straightened out once and for all. I'm afraid we've all been rather anxious and have been upset with Clay's behavior.”
“Yes, he told me.”
Claiborne quirked an eyebrow at his son. “Seems you and Clay have been doing a lot of talking lately.”
“Yes, we have.”
Whatever Clay had expected, it wasn't Catherine's cool control. He was pleasantly surprised by the way she was handling his father. If there was one thing Claiborne Forrester admired it was spunk, and she was displaying an inordinate amount of it.
“Have you come to any conclusions?” Claiborne pressed on.
“I think that's for Clay to answer.”
“He didn't bother to tell us that he'd found you, you know.”
“I made him promise he wouldn't. I'm living in a home for unwed mothers and didn't care to have my whereabouts known.”
“Because of your father?”
“Yes, among other reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your son's money, Mr. Forrester, and the pressure it could exert on me.”
“Pressure? He offered you money, which you refused to accept. Is that what you call pressure?”
“Yes. Isn't it?”
“Are you upbraiding me, Miss Anderson?”
“Are you upbraiding me, Mr. Forrester?”
The room crackled almost electrically for a moment before Claiborne admitted in a less accusing voice, “You surprise me. I hadn't expected your . . . detachment.”
“I'm not at all detached. I've been through two very hellish weeks. I've been making decisions that haven't been easy.”
“So have my wife and I, and—I dare say—Clay.”
“Yes, he told me about your—I dare say—ultimatum.”
“Call it what you will. I don't doubt that Clay represented it to you in anything but its true light. We were grossly disappointed in the lack of good judgment he showed and took steps to see that he not only own up to his responsibilities, but that he not ruin his chances for the future.”
Angela Forrester sat forward then on the edge of her chair, legs crossed, leaning a delicate elbow on one knee. “Catherine,” she said, her voice the first emotional one in the room, “please understand that I—we have all been utterly distraught about your welfare and that of the child. I was so afraid you'd gone off to have an abortion anyway, in spite of what you told Clay.”
Catherine could not help angling a quick glance at Clay, surprised that he'd told them he'd suggested abortion.
“They know everything that we talked about that night,” he confirmed.
“You're surprised, Catherine?” Angela asked. “That Clay told us the truth or that we . . . rather . . . forced the issue?”
“At both, I guess.”
“Catherine, we knew you were here against your wishes the first time. Believe me, Clay's father and I have asked ourselves countless times what is the right thing to do. We coerced Clay into bringing you back here, so are we any less guilty of force than your father?”
“My father is a man who doesn't know how to reason, or rather, who won't. Please don't think that I'm anything like him. I . . .” Catherine looked down at her lap, her first outward show of her inner turmoil. “I intensely dislike my father.” Then she confronted Claiborne's eyes again, continuing. “You may as well know that part of the reason I am here now is to see that he doesn't bleed you for a single red cent, and that my reasons have little to do with altruism.”
Claiborne rose, crossed back to his desk and seated himself behind it. He picked up a letter opener and began toying with it. “You're a very direct young woman.”
Angela could tell this pleased her husband. While the girl's directness put her off somewhat, she was moved to sympathy by a daughter harboring such strong negative emotions for a father. The girl, it was obvious, was defensive about it, too, which meant she was hurt by it. All of this touched the mother in Angela.
“Does that bother you?” Catherine was asking.
“No, no, not at all,” Claiborne blustered, ruffled that someone else controlled the conversational reins which he was accustomed to controlling.
Again Catherine dropped her eyes to her lap. “Well, anyway, I don't have to live in the same house with him anymore.”
Again Angela experienced a twinge of pity; her eyes met her husband's and went to Clay, who was studying Catherine's profile.
Clay dropped his hand from the back of the loveseat onto the back of Catherine's neck, to the spot where he'd once detected the evidence of her father's abuse. Startled, she met his eyes, burned by the heat of his hand through her hair. Then the heat disappeared and Clay looked toward his father. “Catherine left home and arranged for her father to think she was running across the country so that she could continue school without being hassled by him.”
Surprised, Claiborne asked, “You're a student?”
“Yes, at the university.”
Again Clay spok
e. “It goes without saying that she'd have a tough time of it with the baby. I managed to convince her that it was sensible to let me help with finances.” He allowed a moment to pass silently before capturing Catherine's hand, pressing it onto his knee in a way she found embarrassingly familiar. “Catherine and I have talked everything over. Tonight I asked her to marry me and she accepted.”
Angela carefully kept the pain from showing in her face, but her throat worked convulsively. The letter opener slipped from Claiborne's fingers and clattered onto the desktop. He then rested one elbow on each side of it and covered his face with both hands.
“We've agreed that it's best this way,” Clay said quietly, and his father's eyes emerged from behind his fingertips just in time to see Catherine slip her hand cautiously off Clay's knee.
What have I done? thought Claiborne.
Angela murmured, “I'm so relieved,” and wondered if she really was.
Claiborne could not help asking, “Are you sure?”
Catherine felt Clay's eyes pulling her own to his face. He gave her a secretive look which could easily be misinterpreted by his parents. Then he rested an elbow on the back of the sofa and laid a hand on her shoulder nearest his chest. “Catherine's friends and I have managed to convince her,” he said, with just enough implied intimacy to give them the fully wrong impression.
Catherine felt her face redden.
Angela and Claiborne witnessed their son's eyes caressing the young woman's face, and their own startled eyes met. How could this possibly have happened so quickly? Yet they each remembered that the two had been intimate once; apparently there was some basis for attraction. Everything about Clay's attitude suggested it, and the girl's blush confirmed it. But sensing that Catherine was displeased with the way Clay allowed his appetites to show, Angela moved toward them, offering congratulations. Claiborne rose and came to clasp their hands. When he held his son's hand firmly within both of his, he said honestly, “We're proud of your decision, Clay.”
But there was an undeniably painful mixture of eagerness and disappointment permeating the room. Feeling it, Catherine thought this must be how a thief felt while casing victims who were also friends.