Melissa began to squall, but quieted as soon as Catherine reappeared. She handed a glass to Clay, cranked up the swing, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside it.
“Oh, before I forget—here.” Clay dug a check out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“Oh, thank you. I hated to ask for more.”
“You earned it,” he said without thinking. But Catherine seemed to take no offense. Instead, she began to describe the babysitter who cared for Melissa, as if to put him at ease about the woman's coming well-recommended.
“You don't have to reassure me about that, Catherine. If there's one thing I don't worry about, it's the kind of care Melissa will get.”
“She's a good baby, Clay, really good. She's got your temperament.” Then Catherine smiled, shook her head in gay self-deprecation. “Boy, I'm sure glad she didn't get mine or she'd be driving her mother nuts!”
“You had to put up with plenty of temper from me.”
“Usually after I started it, though. Oh, well, water over the dam, huh? So, how's everything with you and Jill? Are you happy?”
Clay seemed startled. The last thing he'd expected Catherine to ask about was Jill, especially in that free and easy way.
“Yes, we are. We don't—” But he stopped self-consciously.
“Hey, it's okay. I mean, I didn't mean to pry.”
“No, you weren't prying. I was just going to say that Jill and I don't fight like you and I used to, or give each other the silent treatment. We coexist rather peacefully.”
“Good for you. So do Melissa and I. Peace is nice, isn't it, Clay?”
He sipped his drink, assessing this changed Catherine who seemed utterly satisfied with herself and her life. She reached over and tucked the baby's collar down, keeping up with the swing while she did it, smiling and saying, “Melissa, this is your daddy. You remember him, don't you? Shame on you for sticking your lip out and crying at him.” Again she glanced up at Clay. “Your father came to visit us once. He brought Melissa a toy and asked how we were and said to let him know if we needed anything. But he's been so good to us already I'd feel guilty to take anything from him.”
“What is it you need?”
“Nothing. Clay, you've been great about the money part. I really appreciate it. School is going to be great this year, I know. I mean, it's so much easier going to school when you're not pregnant.” She flung her arms up and let them flop back down. “I feel like I could conquer the world every day, you know?”
Clay used to feel that way; he didn't anymore. “Are you still sewing and typing?”
“Yes, now that school is in session again it's easy to find jobs. Don't worry, I'll help with the money any way I can. Mostly it goes for groceries. Baby food is kind of expensive.” She chuckled and fluffed Melissa's hair as the swing went past. “'Course, I could save a lot on it if I didn't eat so much of it myself. We kind of share stuff, Melissa and I. I share my shower with her and she shares her food with me, huh, Lissy?”
“You take her in the shower!” exclaimed Clay. “At her age?”
“Oh, she loves it. And the pool too. You should have seen her in the pool this summer, just like a baby otter.” While she rambled on, she took Melissa out of the swing and sat the baby in her lap facing Clay. He noticed a new contentment in Catherine as she touched Melissa's hair or ear or gently clapped the bottoms of the tiny feet together. There was a naturalness about it that made Clay feel left out. The longer he observed Catherine with the baby the more he sensed how much she'd changed. She was freer than he'd ever seen her, talkative and happy, trying to withhold nothing about Melissa from him. It almost seemed as if she must share everything she could remember. But she did it guilelessly, shifting her attention from the baby to Clay all the while. Finally she said, “I think she's used to you now if you want to hold her.”
But when he took Melissa, she immediately complained, so, disappointed, he handed the baby back to her mother.
Catherine shrugged. “Sorry.”
He stood up to leave.
“Clay, is there anything you want from the house? I feel awful about taking everything from you. It seems like everything here is yours and I've ended up with it all. If there's anything you want, just say so, it's yours.”
He glanced around the neat living room where the only thing out of place was the swing. He thought of the disarray Jill always left in her wake.
“Jill had everything already, thanks.”
“Aren't there even any of the wedding gifts you want?”
“No, you keep 'em.”
“Not even the popcorn popper?” She looked like a sprite while asking it.
“That wasn't a wedding gift. We bought that together.”
“Oh, that's right. Well, I don't make much popcorn, so just say if you want it.”
She seemed to have thoroughly adjusted to her life without him. She led the way to the door, opened it and sauntered out to the car with him.
“Thanks for bringing the check over, Clay; we really appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
“Clay, one more thing before you go.”
He stood beside the open car door, grateful for something that kept him here a little longer. Catherine stared at the ground, kicking a pebble, then looked directly into his eyes.
“Your father mentioned that they don't see much of you anymore. It's none of my business, but he seemed terribly hurt by that. Clay, there's no reason for you to feel like you've failed them or—or whatever.” This was the first time she'd acted flustered. Her cheeks were pink. “Oh, you know what I mean. Your parents are really great. Don't sell them short, okay?”
“They don't exactly approve of my living with Jill.”
“Give them a chance,” she said, her voice gone quite low and musical, persuasive somehow. “How can they approve if they never see you to do it?” Then, quite suddenly, she flashed him a smile. “Oh, forget it. It's none of my business. Say good-bye to your daddy, Melissa.” She backed away, manipulating the baby's arm in a wave.
Why was it that Clay, too, felt she was manipulating his heart in some obscure way?
Six weeks after school started a history professor named Frank Barrett asked Catherine to a show at the Orpheum. They returned to her house after an exhilarating live performance of A Chorus Line, and Frank Barrett tried to exact payment for the evening. He was handsome enough, in a rugged, dark-whiskered way, and Catherine thought of it as therapy when she let herself be pulled into his arms and kissed. But his beard, which she'd liked earlier, was less likable when his tongue came through it. His body, which had nothing to speak against it, was less appealing when it flattened Catherine's against the entry wall. His hands, which were square-nailed and clean, were too abruptly intimate, and when she pushed them away, it was with a healthy, negative feeling against him that had nothing to do with hang-ups. She simply was not attracted to him, and found it glorious to turn him away for such a reason.
When he apologized, she actually smiled, saying, “Oh, no need to apologize. It was wonderful.”
Misreading her reply, he moved in again only to be staved off a second time.
“No, Frank. I meant saying no was wonderful!”
The poor, puzzled Frank Barrett left Catherine believing that she was somewhat wacky, not at all like she'd seemed when he'd first noticed her in his classroom.
In late November the law caught up with Herb Anderson and he was returned to Minnesota for trial. When Catherine saw him in the courtroom, she could scarcely believe it was he. His beer belly was gone, his face sallow, his hands shaky; life on the lam had obviously been unkind to him. But the same cynical expression still marred his face, the same droop of lips said Old Herb still thought he deserved a square deal from life and wasn't getting it.
To Catherine's surprise, Clay was in the courtroom, and so were his parents. With an effort, she forced her thoughts back to the proceedings, noting the satisfied smirk that crossed Herb's face when he saw that the Forrest
ers did not seat themselves in the same row with Catherine and Ada.
The trial did not last long, for there was no one to come to Herb Anderson's defense, save two of his booze-buddies from the old days, who looked even more desreputable than Herb, who'd at least been cleaned up and offered fresh clothing, courtesy of the county. Herb Anderson's history of violence was clearly presented in the testimony of Ada, Catherine and even Herb's own sister and brother-in-law, Aunt Ella and Uncle Frank. The past assault on Clay was brought up as evidence and dismissed, yet its impact remained. The doctor who had treated Ada testified, as did the ambulance drivers and Mrs. Sullivan. As the trial proceeded, Herb's usually florid face grew pastier and pastier. There were no verbal outbursts from him this time, only a quivering of his flaccid jowls and a persecuted expression when the judge sentenced Herbert Anderson to two years in the Stillwater State Penitentiary.
Leaving her seat, holding Ada's arm, Catherine saw Clay and his parents moving, also, toward the center aisle. He wore a stylish cashmere coat of spice brown, its collar flipped up. His eyes sought and held hers as she moved toward him, and wings seemed to flutter within Catherine's chest as she realized he was waiting for her. There was a welcome feeling of security about anticipating his touch upon her arm. Without a word—for the bench had called the next case—it was somehow understood: Angela and Claiborne separated to make room for Ada between them as they left the courtroom, followed by Catherine, with Clay's hand guiding her elbow. Walking beside him, she caught a hint of his familiar cologne. She gave in to the urge to look up at him again, tightening her arm and pulling his hand against her ribs.
“Thank you, Clay,” she smiled appreciatively. “We really needed your support today.”
He squeezed her elbow. The impact of his smile sent flurries deep into her stomach, and she looked away.
Once again Clay sensed the changes in her. She had gained a new self-assurance that was totally attractive on her, while at the same time, she'd become dulcified. She was no longer skittish nor defensive. He noticed that she'd changed her hairstyle and that the summer's streaks were now blending into its natural gold color. He studied it as she walked a step ahead of him, mentally approving of the appealing way in which it was caught up with combs behind her ears, falling in blithe curls down past her shoulder blades now.
They reached the corridor and found Angela waiting there, gazing at Catherine, fighting tears.
“Oh, Catherine, it's so wonderful to see you.”
“I've missed you too,” Catherine got out. Then the two were in each other's arms and tears were hovering in the corners of both pairs of eyes.
Observing them, Clay remembered how Catherine had vowed not to let herself grow fond of his parents, but he saw that it hadn't worked, for from Angela's embrace she went to Claiborne's. It was the first time Clay ever remembered Catherine moving unguardedly into a hug, except that time with Steve.
Claiborne's bear hug made Catherine gasp and laugh, breaking the tension, but over his shoulder Catherine's eyes were again drawn to Clay, who was studying her with a faraway expression.
They all seemed to remember Ada then, and the reason for their being there. After they spoke of the case she had just won, the talk moved on to other things, growing a little fast and clipped, as if too much needed crowding into too little time. At last Angela suggested, “Why don't we all go somewhere and have a sandwich or a drink, somewhere we can talk for a while. There's so much I want to hear about Melissa and you, Catherine.”
“How about The Mullion?” Claiborne suggested. “It's a favorite place of mine and not far from here.”
Catherine glanced sharply at Clay, then at her mother.
Ada's hand fluttered to draw her coat closed. “Why, I don't know. I rode in with Margaret.” They now took note of Mrs. Sullivan standing by, waiting with Ella and Frank.
“If you'd like, we'll take you home,” Claiborne offered.
“Well, it's up to Cathy.”
Catherine heard Clay say, “Catherine can ride with me.” She slid him a look then, but he was buttoning up his coat as if it were already decided.
“I have my own car,” she said.
“Whatever you'd like. You can ride with me if you like, and I'll bring you back uptown afterward to pick up your car.”
The old Catherine intruded, with her impulse to fend off her feelings of attraction for Clay. But the newer Catherine was secure now and decided to go ahead and enjoy him while she could.
“All right,” she agreed. “There's no sense in burning up extra gas.”
Smiling at the others, Clay said, “We'll see you there then.”
And Catherine felt her elbow firmly clasped and snuggled against Clay's warm side.
Outside the wind was howling, eddying in miniature twisters in the valleys between tall buildings. Catherine savored the icy sting upon her cheeks, for they were warm, almost burning. She and Clay got to a corner and stood waiting for a light to change. Catherine kept her eyes on the luminous red circle across the street, but she could feel Clay's eyes on her. She reached to turn up her collar but it caught on the long angora scarf twined around her neck, and Clay reached a gloved hand to help. Through all those layers of wool, his touch could still raise goosebumps up and down Catherine's spine. The light changed then.
“My car's in the parking ramp,” Clay said, taking her arm again as they crossed the windy street, then crossing behind her as they turned the corner. Taking the outside, he brushed her shoulder. The touch made her tingle. She searched for something to say, but the only sound came from their heels on the sidewalk. He turned her into the echoing dungeon of a concrete parking ramp, its floor slick with motor oil. The heel of her shoe skittered, dumping her sideways, but she felt herself hoisted upright by that hand so secure on her elbow.
“You okay?”
“Yes, winter is no time for high heels.”
He watched her trim ankles, mentally disagreeing with her.
At the elevator he dropped her arm, leaned to push the button, and the silence seemed insurmountable while they waited, shivering, their shoulders hunched against the cold that seemed so much more intense in the concrete dimness. The elevator arrived; Clay stood aside while Catherine boarded. He pushed an orange button. Still they said nothing, and Catherine frantically wished she'd kept up a steady stream of chatter all the way because the privacy of the elevator was unbearable, yet she couldn't think of how to start.
Clay watched the light indicate the floors as they went up. “How's Melissa?” he asked the lights.
“Melissa's fine. She just loves the babysitter's; at least I'm told she's very content and happy there.”
The hum of the elevator sounded like a buzz saw.
“How's Jill?”
Clay looked sharply at Catherine, hesitating only a moment before answering, “Jill's fine, at least she tells me she's very content and happy.”
“And how about you?” Catherine's heart slammed around inside her. “What do you tell her?”
They had arrived at the correct level. The doors opened. Neither of them moved. The frigid air invaded their cell, but they stood as if unaware of it, gazing into each other's faces.
“My car is off to the right,” he said, confused by the confusion in his chest, afraid of making the wrong move with her.
“I'm sorry, Clay, I shouldn't have asked that,” she said in a rush, hurrying along beside him. “You have every right to ask about Melissa, but I have none to ask about Jill. I do wonder about you, though, and hope you're happy. I want you to be.”
They stopped beside the Corvette. He leaned to unlock the door. He straightened, looked at her. “I'm working on it.”
Riding to The Mullion they were both remembering the other time he'd taken her there. Suddenly it seemed childish to Catherine, the way they had grown so ill at ease with each other.
“Are you thinking about it, too, about the last time we went here?” she asked.
“I wasn't going to menti
on it.”
“We're big kids now. We should be able to handle it.”
“You know, you've changed, Catherine. Half a year ago you'd have bristled and acted threatened at the idea of going there.”
“I felt threatened then.”
“And now you don't?”
“I'm not sure of your question. Do you mean threatened by you?”
“It wasn't always against me that you put up your defenses. It was other things, places, circumstances, your own fears. I think you've outgrown a lot of that.”
“I think I have too.”
“Since you asked me, I'll ask you—are you happy?”
“Yes. And do you know what made the difference?”
“What?” He angled a glance at her and found her watching him in the failing light of late afternoon.
“Melissa,” she answered softly. “There have been countless times when I've looked at her and fought the urge to call you and say thank you for giving her to me.”
“Why didn't you?”
He'd had his eyes on her for so long she wondered how the car stayed on the road. Catherine moved her head and shoulders in a vague way that said she did not have the answer. He turned back to watch the lane, and the familiarity struck her with a breath-taking blow: his profile there behind the wheel, the wrist draped negligently as he drove with the ease she remembered so well. She let her impulses have their way and suddenly leaned over, putting a hand on his jaw and pulling his cheek briefly against her lips.
“That's for both of us, for Melissa and me. Because I think she's just as grateful to have me as I am to have her.” Quickly Catherine centered herself in her own seat and went on. “And you know what, Clay? I'm a fabulous mother. Don't ask me how it happened, but I know I am.”
He couldn't help grinning. “And humble too.”
She snuggled into her seat contentedly. “There aren't a lot of things I'm good at, but being Melissa's mother is . . . well, it's great. It's a little harder since school started, but I cut a few corners of housework time here and there, let a few things stay dusty, and I still find time for her. But I have to admit, I'll be glad when school is over and I don't have to divide my time so many ways.”