Aly's House (12 page)

“No, I'm not angry, Aly. If Cedar Hill had to belong to anyone other than me, I'm glad it's in your hands.” He took his gaze around the room appreciatively. “The house is beautiful, exactly as Mother would have liked to have seen it.”

“It's a tribute to her and your father, you know, and what Cedar Hill meant to me. It's strange how this house affects everyone who spends any time in it. It's almost become the focal point of our family gatherings, oddly enough. I hope that doesn't distress you, Marshall, but you'd be gratified to see how much nicer everybody is when we gather here.”

He smiled thinly. “Even your father?”

Aly nodded with a small chuckle. “Even my father. He's mellowing, Marshall.”

Marshall finished his drink in a long swallow. “How about something to eat?” he asked.

Leaving the house, he walked down the porch steps behind Aly without haste. After he had seen her into the car, he paused at the door on his side and looked back at the house. He would not be able to see much of it in the darkness when he brought Aly home, and he wouldn't be back after tonight. It had been a mistake to come after all.

Jimmy's was a large, sprawling dance hall and restaurant whose outside sign declared that it served the best chicken fried steak in the state. “New Yorkers would call this paste,” Marshall said, picking up a knife to cut through the white, highly peppered gravy covering the batter-coated beef. “Then they'd scrape it off and apply half a bottle of catsup.”

“The height of ignorance!” responded Aly, thoroughly enjoying her first unadulterated bite of the house specialty. “Why do you stay up there among all of those uncivilized folks?”

“Because New York is the best place to do what I do best.”

“Really?” Aly sounded surprised. “I can't imagine your talents limited to a geographical location.”

Startled, Marshall glanced up at her, unsure of her meaning. Her expression seemed innocent enough. Under the circumstances, he should let the remark pass. But he was curious.

“And what do you think those talents may be?”

Aly could have kicked herself. The words had come out before she'd had a chance to catch hold of them. She'd hoped they'd float right by unnoticed but such was not the case. “Oh,” she said casually, “I would assume the talents involved in making money.”

“Is that what you would assume?”

“Yes. No—” She looked up, knowing her face must look as red as the tomato in her salad. She forced herself to meet his gaze levelly. After all, she was not eighteen anymore. She was a grown woman with every prerogative she had the nerve to take. And she'd always had plenty of nerve. “No, that is not what I meant.”

Marshall thought that over in silence, their gazes holding. “I didn't think so,” he said after a while and went back to his steak. He brought up the topic of Benjy Carter. “I can't apologize enough for not believing you that day,” he said feelingly. “I should have known you were far too responsible to let something like that happen.”

“Think no more about it, Marshall. You were in no mood to be generous that day. Besides, everything worked out for the best. If I hadn't worked for Matt, I'd never have discovered how crazy I am about horses, and if I hadn't lost Sampson, I'd never have gone to college to learn about the breeding business, and then I wouldn't have been ready to take over Green Meadows by the time I had the opportunity to buy it. Certainly it wouldn't be the success it is today.”

Marshall said with a touch of rancor, “I'm sure that makes your father feel justified in what he did.”

“No doubt,” she said, taking a sip of wine. The specter of her father had descended between them, chilling as a sudden cloud passing over the sun. She cast about for a change of subject, but Marshall seemed determined to keep them in the past.

“When did you find out that Mother had died?”

Aly said without looking at him, because she could not be sure of her expression, “I went out to the cemetery one day to plant some geraniums by your father's headstone and found Elizabeth's grave.”

“God—” He looked away from her, the blood leaving his face, appalled and sickened by his heartlessness. How could he have been so brutal to this woman whose only crime had been to love his family—and him, at one time. “Aly.” He looked back at her, his eyes burning with the misery of his shame, and reached for her hand. “How can you ever forgive me? It was unconscionable of me not to let you know.”

“I should have realized when my letters were returned that something terrible had happened. I should have tried to contact you in New York, but I didn't want to intrude.”

“I can imagine why not,” he said ruefully, still holding her hand. “I moved right after Mother died…” How could he explain to her the anguish that had led him to hurt her so? As long as he lived he would never forget the Sunday he had stood with his mother at the foot of Cedar Hill. They had been out at the cemetery to lay his father to rest. The wrecking crews had already been at the farm by then, of course. The fields had been cleared and the pens and barns demolished. The cedars lay where they had been yanked out by their roots, and the pecan trees burned to the ground. But it had been the sight of the house, gutted and crippled but still standing like some animal too proud to fall, that had broken their hearts. Nearby had stood a crane with a ramming ball suspended from its long neck, suggestive of a prehistoric beast standing guard over its helpless prey. The house had seemed to stare down at them out of its empty eyes as though aware of their shock and grief, as if it understood their helplessness to prevent what was coming in the morning. His mother had begun to sob uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking with the rending despair that would never leave her. That day the fate of the Kingstons was sealed. When his mother died two years later, he never once thought of getting in touch with a member of the family that had caused his own so much sorrow.

Aly pressed his hand in understanding, moved by his contrition and the sense of some inner grief that she could only guess at. “All apologies accepted. All forgiveness given. Let's not talk any more about the past, Marshall. Let's talk about what you've been doing with yourself these last thirteen years. And could we have more wine?” she asked, to prolong the evening. They had finished their meal and she didn't want him to take her home. Would he see her again before he returned to New York, she wondered. And how long would that be, now that Cedar Hill wasn't for sale?

Marshall released her hand to signal the waitress. While they sipped through another carafe, he told her about New York and allowed her to draw him into a discussion about investments.

“So commodities are your bag.” She smiled interestedly after he'd explained the basic principles of the futures market.

Marshall patted his lips with his napkin to cover his amusement. She hadn't heard a word he'd said about trading wheat and grain futures, the financial medium through which he'd amassed a fortune. Her interest had been assumed to draw out the evening. He regretted that he wouldn't be seeing her again after tonight. “I'm out of the business now,” he answered with a straight face. “Now I've opted for tax-free municipal bonds.” He glanced toward the dance hall next door where a western band had struck up the first tune of the evening. Marshall folded his napkin. “Shall we go take a couple of spins around the dance floor?” he invited with a smile that only he knew was sad.

Once there, she came into his arms with the shy smile she'd always flickered when his mother said, “Say hello to Aly, son.” The memory caused him to hold her protectively tighter, his arm fitting neatly around her slender waist, her hair soft against his chin. She smelled like a rain-washed morning, and he could have drowned in the freshness of her. “Hello, Aly,” he whispered in her ear.

In the intimate nook of his neck and shoulder, a smile broke across her face. “Hello, Marshall,” she said, remembering.

“How come you've never married?”

“I've never been asked by a man I love.”

“Have there been many of those?”

“Only one.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Not the way I do.”

Aly felt him tense slightly, and when he did not respond, regretted the honesty of her remark. An awkward few minutes passed in which she could think of nothing to say to rescue the moment.

Apparently Marshall couldn't either. When the song ended, he smiled regretfully into her eyes. “Time I got you home,” he said.

On the return trip to Cedar Hill, conversation died, leaving an uncomfortable silence. Aly thought the grief of her disappointment would burst her heart. Marshall wasn't going to see her again, she was certain. This evening had been for apologies, and now that they'd been given and forgiveness received, the chapter was closed, the missing page restored. She ought to be feeling happy now, ready to get on to other men eager to come into her life. Through the years her business had put her in touch with quite a few. She had met none whose memory could keep her awake at nights. Only one face, one smile, one man could do that. And she wondered dismally if he had not ruined her for all others.

“Will you still be wanting to buy Sampson?” she asked, the question startling in the darkness of the car.

“Why, yes,” Marshall said. He cast her a look. “You say I'm to deal with Joe Handlin?”

“Yes.”

“When will he be back?”

“He's back. He just took one day off.”

When Aly disappointingly offered no further information, Marshall said, “I'll have to let you know later about Sampson. My plans have changed somewhat.”

“Suit yourself. He'll be available.”

As they drew up to the house, Aly swallowed her pride and asked, “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”

She did not look at him as she asked, and Marshall could not force himself to say no, knowing his refusal would hurt her. “Sure. That sounds good,” he said, turning off the motor.

While Aly was in the kitchen preparing the coffee, Marshall stood in the summer parlor looking out at the black night. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but he would not have been comfortable smoking in this house, even though Aly had thoughtfully provided ashtrays.

It was essential that after the coffee he make a clean exit. Aly still cared for him, he thought without vanity, and he wished sincerely that she did not. Hanging around would only encourage her feelings, and she would be even more deeply hurt when he accomplished what he'd come here to do. But even without considering her, he had himself to think about. Aly Kingston was a part of him. Being with her put him in closer touch with his family, brought back all the good from the past. Being with Aly was like…going home. He could not allow those sentiments to weaken his resolve.

“Who taught you how to ride?” he asked curiously as Aly brought in a tray with two steaming coffee mugs stamped with the logo of Green Meadows.

Setting it down on the coffee table, she took a seat on the couch and asked with a wry smile, “Ever hear of the sailor who loved the sea but couldn't swim?”

Marshall looked thunderstruck. “What? Aly, you're not saying you still don't know how to ride?”

“The guy who offered to teach me blew out of town the next day.”

He asked quietly, “You haven't been waiting for me to come back and teach you, have you?”

“Why not? You're here.”

“Aly, listen.” He longed to touch her. He wanted to sit down next to her and hold one of her cool, slender hands while he explained what he must have her understand. But he remained standing, his feet apart, looking down at her with his fingertips tucked in the pockets of his western-cut slacks. “You may be upset with me for saying this, and I won't blame you if you are, but it's got to be said.”

Aly looked at him calmly, her hazel eyes lovely in the soft light. Marshall took a deep breath and hurried on. “I believe I've detected in you some feelings tonight that are carry-overs from the past. I can't imagine why you would still have them for me, given my behavior to you, but I don't think either of us can deny they're there. I—”

Though Aly remained perfectly composed, Marshall had seen the movement of a hard swallow down the sensitive line of her throat. He swore at himself and said in a plea of frustration, “Aly, what I'm trying to say is that…”

“There's someone else,” Aly offered softly.

“Not someone else, Aly,
something
else, something that is a big part of my life that you could never share. Forgive me for being so blunt, for hurting you, if I have. I would never want to do that, ever again. That's why I felt it kinder to explain before I go away tonight why I won't be calling you anymore while I'm in Claiborne.”

“I understand,” Aly said. “I appreciate your frankness, Marshall.” Damn! If she indicated by so much as an eyelash that he had just driven a two-by-four right through her, she would strangle herself before sunup. “I take it you're not going to want your cup of coffee?”

“I'm afraid not, Aly.”

“Well then, let me see you to the door.”

Had she
, he wondered,
always had that way of rising gracefully? Where had she learned such poise if it did not come naturally?
He followed her down the breezeway, noting how the moonlight, streaming from overhead, picked out the natural lights of her hair. At the door she turned with a friendly smile. “Well, good-bye again, Marshall,” she said with a lightness he knew assumed. The words sounded so conclusive, so awesomely final that he could not resist relieving the moment by briefly touching his lips to her cheek. But she turned toward him as he bent his head, and he found himself staring into her eyes. Hers dropped to his lips as if wondering where they had sprung from, the gesture so bewitchingly provocative and innocent at the same time that he reached out, his hand finding the small of her back, and drew her against his chest. “Marshall,” she said in surprise, her lips opening like a petal to form his name as he bent his head.