Separate Beds

  The kiss then had been purely a kiss of thanks. It was clearer than ever that Catherine's life was full and happy. She had it all together. Clay listened to her relating stories about it and suffered pangs of regret that she'd been unable to feel this fulfilled when she was living with him. He came from his reverie to realize she'd just said she was dating again. He submerged the twinge of possessiveness to which he no longer had a right, and asked, “How does it feel?”

  “Terrific!” She flung up her palms. “Just terrific! I can kiss back without the slightest bit of guilt. Sometimes I can even enjoy it.”

  She looked at him with an impish grin and they both laughed. But a hundred queries bubbled up in his mind about those kisses, the ones she shared them with, queries which, again, he had no right to ask.

  They stayed at The Mullion for over two hours, until Angela had learned about each of Melissa's toys and teeth and vaccinations. Catherine was her new, free, easy self all the while. Clay spoke little, sitting back and studying her, comparing her to the way she used to be. And subconsciously comparing her to Jill. He wondered if she was dating only one man or several. He planned to ask her when he drove her back to her car.

  But when the time came to leave, Catherine pointed out that it was actually closer to Claiborne and Angela's route to drop her back uptown, and she rode with them.

  Chapter 29

  Clay stood in the window of the high-rise apartment he shared with Jill, staring down at the icy expanse of Lake Minnetonka in the cold, purple dusk below. The lake was a sprawling network of bays, channels and inlets in a western suburb bearing its name. Clay wished it were summer. In summer the lake was a water-lover's paradise, dappled by sails, dotted with skiers, peopled with fishermen, rimmed by intermittent beach and woodland. Its islands emerged like emeralds from sapphire waters. In spots where its shoreline was left to nature's whims, watery fingers erupted in lavender explosions of loosestrife, come August.

  But now, in early December, Clay studied the frozen surface in distaste. Winds had whipped it into a froth as it froze, leaving it the pitted texture and color of lava. Rowboats and schooners alike looked bereft, overturned on the shore. Hoisted above the waterline their soiled canvas covers held dirty snow. On a spar below, a trio of dissolute sparrows fluffed their feathers against an arctic wind until they were blown off, trundled sideways as they flew. A small flock of mallards fought a headwind, then disappeared in their search of open water.

  Watching the ducks, Clay wondered where the autumn had gone. He had drifted through it listlessly, free this year to enjoy the hunting he so dearly loved, yet somehow never even getting his gun out of its case. In the past he'd hunted with his father more than anyone else. He missed his father. But as winter thickened and intensified, so had his parents' disapproval over his living with Jill. Although they occasionally phoned, Clay sensed their silent chastisement, thus never called them back.

  He saw Jill's car curve into the parking lot below and disappear toward the garages. Minutes later he heard her key in the door. Normally he'd have hurried to open it, but today he only continued staring morosely at the chill scene outside.

  “Oh, God, it's cold! I hope there's a nice hot toddy waiting for me,” Jill said. She crossed to Clay, dropping gloves, scarf, purse and coat across the room like rings from a skipping stone, only—unlike ripples—the articles would not disappear. It aggravated Clay, for he'd just cleaned up the place again when he got home. Jill crooked an arm through his and rubbed her cold nose against his jaw in greeting.

  “I like it when you get home first and you're here waiting.”

  “Jill, do you have to drop your stuff everyplace like that?”

  “Oh, did I drop something?” She looked at the trail behind her, then nuzzled Clay again. “Just anxious to get to you, darling, that's all. Besides, you know I always had a maid at home.”

  “Yes, I know. That's always your excuse.” He couldn't help recalling how Catherine used to enjoy keeping the town house clean and neat.

  “Irritable tonight, darling?”

  “No, I'm just tired of living in a mess.”

  “You're irritable. In need of some liquid refreshment. What have you been standing here brooding about, your parents again? If it bothers you so much, why don't you go over and see them tonight?”

  But it only irritated him further that she simplified it so, as if his problems could be solved by a simple visit. She dropped her shoes in the middle of the room on her way to the liquor cabinet. She picked up a brandy decanter, swung around loosely to face him, and said, “Let's have a drink, then go out and get some supper.”

  It was Friday night, bleak and cold, and he was tired of running. He wished just for once she'd suggest making dinner at home, doing something cozy and relaxing. The memory of sharing popcorn and studying with Catherine came back, so inviting now. He pictured the town house, Melissa in her swing with Catherine cross-legged beside it in her jeans. Looking out at the cold, icy lake which was receding into dusk's hold, he wondered what Catherine's reaction would be if he showed up at her door. Abruptly, he walked over and closed the draperies. Before he could reach for the lamp switch, Jill moved close in the dark. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her breasts to his chest and sighed.

  “Maybe I can think of a way to coax you out of your bad mood,” she whispered huskily against his lips.

  He kissed her, waiting for arousal to grip him. Instead, he was gripped only by hunger pangs; he'd skipped lunch that day. It struck him that the state of his stomach overrode his bodily response to Jill. It made him feel emptier, hungrier, but for something that went beyond either food or sex.

  “Later,” he said, brushing her hair back, guilty now for his lack of desire. “Get your coat and let's go out and eat.”

  Melissa was teething and fussy and whiny these days. She resisted bedtime, so Catherine often brought her out onto the living room floor until she fell asleep there, then carried her up to her crib.

  The doorbell rang and Melissa's eyes flew open again.

  Oh, damn, thought Catherine. But she leaned over, kissed Melissa's forehead and whispered, “Mommy'll be right back, punkin.”

  Melissa started sucking on her bottle again.

  Through the door Clay heard her muffled voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “It's Clay,” he said, close to the wood.

  Suddenly Catherine forgot her irritation. Her stomach seemed to suspend itself, then drift back into place in an unnervingly tentative way. It's Clay, it's Clay, it's Clay, she thought, deliriously happy.

  On the other side of the door Clay wondered what he'd say to her; she'd surely see through his flimsy excuse for coming here.

  The door fairly flew open, but when it swung back she stood motionless. First impression made her momentarily mute: his wind-whipped hair in a whorl of inviting imperfection above the turned-up collar of an old letter jacket; faded jeans hugging his slim hips; his hands in his pockets like some uncertain high-school sophomore ringing a girl's bell for the first time. He hesitated as if he didn't know what to say, then his eyes traveled down to her knees, then back up, then seemed not to know where to rest. Everything in her went all loose and jellyish.

  “Hi, Catherine.”

  “Hi, Clay.”

  Suddenly she realized how long it had been since either of them had moved and remembered that Melissa was on the floor with the cold wafting in.

  “I brought Melissa a Christmas gift.”

  She stepped back, let him in, then closed the door to find herself disarmingly close to him in the rather confined area of the entry.

  Clay briefly glanced down at her attire. “Were you in bed already?”

  “Oh—oh, no.” Self-consciously she tugged the zipper of her robe the remaining two inches up her neck, then jammed her hands into its pockets.

  “I guess I should have called first.” He stood there feeling graceless and intrusive. The robe was fleecy pink, with a hood, and pockets on
the front like a sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back with a plastic headband and the ends of it were still wet. Her face had that scrubbed, shiny look that he recognized so well. With a start, he realized she'd just gotten out of the shower. He knew perfectly well there was no bra beneath that fuzzy, pink fleece—he remembered that untethered look of hers.

  “It doesn't matter, it's okay.”

  “Next time I'll make sure I call first. I just bought something on impulse, and I was driving past and decided to drop it off.”

  “I said it was okay. We weren't doing anything special anyway.”

  “You weren't?” he asked dumbly.

  “I was studying and Melissa was teething.”

  He smiled then, a big, warm, wonderful smile, and she hunched up her shoulders and pushed her hands as far down in her pockets as they'd go because she didn't know how else to contain her happiness at his being here.

  Suddenly there was a loud thump and the living room was plunged into darkness, followed by a second of silence before Melissa's wail of panic billowed through the blackness.

  “Oh, my God!” Clay heard. He groped, touched the fleecy robe and followed it up the stairs in the direction of the living room.

  “Where is she, Catherine?”

  “I left her on the floor.”

  “You get her. I'll get the kitchen light.”

  Melissa was screaming and Catherine's heart threatened to explode. Fumbling for the light switch, Clay, too, felt a stab of panic. He found the switch, then in five long-legged strides was kneeling behind Catherine who had scooped up the baby and was muffling Melissa's cries against her neck. In the dim light Clay could see the table lamp on the floor, but unbroken. He touched Catherine's shoulder, then Melissa's head.

  “Catherine, let's take her into the light and see if she's hurt.” He put his hands on Catherine's sides, urging her up and felt through the robe that she was crying too. “Come on,” he said sensibly, “let's take her to the bathroom.”

  They laid Melissa on a fat Turkish towel on the vanity top. They could see right away where the lamp had hit the back of the baby's head. There was a tiny gash there and already it was starting to swell into a goose egg. Catherine was so upset that her distress was conveyed to Melissa, who squalled all the louder. So Clay was the one who swabbed the bruise and calmed them both.

  “It's all my fault.” Catherine blamed herself. “I've never left her on the floor like that before. I should have known she'd go straight for the lamp cords—she does every chance she gets. But she was asleep when the doorbell rang and I didn't think anything of it. She started sucking on her bottle again and I was just—”

  “Hey, it's nothing serious. I'm not blaming you, am I?” Clay's eyes met hers in the mirror.

  “But a lamp that size could have killed her.”

  “But it didn't. And it's not the last bump she'll take. Do you realize that you're more upset than Melissa?”

  He was right. Melissa wasn't even crying anymore, just sitting there wet-eyed, watching them. Sheepishly Catherine smiled, sniffled, yanked out a tissue and blew her nose. Clay put his arm around her shoulder and bumped her up against his side a couple of times as if to say, silly girl. At that moment he understood why nature had created a two-parent system. Yes, you're a good mother, Catherine, he thought, but not in emergencies. At times like this, you need me.

  “What do you say we show her the Christmas present I bought for her and that'll make her forget she even had an accident.”

  “All right. But, Clay, do you think this needs stitches? I don't know anything about cuts. She's never had one before.”

  They fought Melissa's tiny hands and caused her to start complaining again while they inspected the damage.

  “I don't know much about it, either, but I don't think so. It's awfully tiny. And anyway, it's in her hair, so if there's a scar it won't show.”

  Finally, Melissa left the bathroom on her mother's arm, looking back at Clay with a wide-eyed look of inquiry. He set up the lamp and plugged it in again, and they all sat down on the living room floor, the baby in her yellow footed pajamas staring so silently at Clay that he finally laughed at her. Her bottom lip started quivering again, so Clay suggested, “Hurry and open that before I get a complex.”

  The sight and sound of the bright red, crackly paper captured the baby's attention as Catherine tore it off the white koala bear with its flat nose and lifelike eyes. At the sight of it, Melissa's mouth made a tiny “ooo,” then she gurgled. The koala had a music box inside, and it wasn't long before it accompanied Melissa to bed.

  Coming back down from Melissa's room, Catherine found Clay waiting at the bottom of the stairs, his green and gold letter jacket slung over one shoulder as if he were going to leave. A throb of disappointment thudded through her. She stopped on the bottom step, curling her toes over the edge, hanging on by her heels only. Her fingertips unconsciously toyed upon the handrails. He stood before her, their eyes nearly on the same level, trying to think of something to say to each other.

  “She'll sleep now,” Catherine said—not quite an invitation, not quite not.

  “Good . . . well . . .” He looked at the carpet while he slowly threaded his arms into his jacket sleeves. Still studying the floor, he straightened the old shapeless collar while Catherine gripped the handrails tightly. He buried his hands in the jacket pockets and cleared his throat.

  “I guess I'd better get going.” His voice sounded a little raspy, trying to talk soft that way so he wouldn't wake Melissa.

  “Yes, I guess so.” It took great effort for Catherine to breathe. The banister felt suddenly slippery.

  Clay's head came up slowly, his inscrutable eyes meeting hers. He gestured with one of his hidden hands as if waving good-bye—jacket and all.

  “So long.”

  She could barely hear it, he said it so softly.

  “So long.”

  But instead of moving, he stood there studying her, the way she perched on that bottom step like a sparrow on a limb. Her eyes were wide and unsmiling, and he could see the way she forced herself to take shallow, fluttering breaths. His own breath wasn't any too calm. He wished she wouldn't look so stricken, but knew she had good reason to be scared, just as scared as he was at that moment. Her hair was dry now, the ends curling wispily upon her shoulders, upon the folds of the hood that hilled up around her jaw. She stood there all still, arms straight out from her sides, looking almost breastless in her robe. Face shiny, devoid of makeup, hair unstyled, feet bare. He tried not to analyze, not to think either “I should” or “I shouldn't,” because he only knew he had to. He took three agonizingly slow footsteps toward her, his eyes roving her face. Then he leaned silently and put his face in the spot where her hair lay, lifted by that hood. He breathed of her remembered fragrance—soft, powdery, feminine scent that he'd always loved. Catherine's lips fell open and she moved her jaw against his temple while deep in her body things went liquid, deep in his things went hard. Her heart scrambled to make sense of this while it seemed to take light-years of time before he straightened and their eyes met. They asked tacit questions, remembered old hurts they'd caused each other. Then, still with his hands in his pockets, Clay leaned and touched her lips softly with his own, seeing her lashes drop just before his own eyes slid shut. He kissed her with a light lingering of flesh upon flesh, letting the past slip into obscurity, yet unable to prevent it from being part of the kiss. He told himself he must go, but when he drew away her lips followed, telling him not to. Their eyelids flickered open to breach that moment of uncertainty before he moved more surely against her lips. There was a timorous, first opening of mouths, warm touch of tongue upon tongue, then Clay wrapped his hands, jacket and all, around her, pulling her inside of it with him. Handlessly they embraced, for she still clutched the rails, and his hands were lost in his pockets behind her, quite afraid to pull them out and start something they certainly should not finish. But it was impossible, unbearable, this handlessness. Then Cather
ine seemed to lean off the steps, drifting into the warm place he opened up to her, losing her arms deep inside his jacket. He enclosed her in the cocoon of soft, old wool and leather, and hard, young flesh and blood, lifting her off that step, turning, holding her suspended against him while the kiss became reckless and she went sliding down his body. Her bare toes touched canvas and she was standing on his tennis shoes. One hand came out of his pocket and found her hair, cradling the back of her head, pulling her against his mouth. His other hand left the safe confines of its pocket and flattened itself upon the center of her back, then drifted lower, lower, to the shallows of her spine, to bring the length of her body against his. Through her robe she could feel his belt buckle and the hard zipper of his jeans, and she remembered drinking wine from his skin. Ironically, the thought sobered her and she tried to push away. But he pulled her almost violently against the thunder of his heart, crushing her.

  “Oh, God, Cat,” he whispered in a strangled voice, “this is where we started.”

  “Not at all,” came her shaky reply. “We've come a long way since then.”

  “You have, Cat, you have. You're so different now.”

  “I've grown up a little, that's all.”

  “Then what the hell's the matter with me?”

  “Don't you know?”

  “Nothing's right in my life anymore. Everything's gone wrong since you and I made that damn agreement. The last year has been miserable. I don't know who I am or where I'm going anymore.”

  “Is this going to tell you?”

  “I don't know. I only know it feels right here with you.”

  “The first time we met it felt right, and look where it landed us.”

  “I want you,” he half-groaned against her hair, wrapping his arms around her so far she heard old stitches pop up the back of his jacket. She closed her eyes and swam in a warm, wet place of his making, secure enough now to take the plunge, to say that which she'd refused to say during the agonizing months she'd lived with him.