Cate Campbell (22 page)

He was silent for a moment. She watched his profile, saw the twist of his mouth. When he began to speak, his voice was so low she had to lean forward to hear him. “I had a pony when I was small,” he said. “An Icelandic pony, about twelve hands, black as coal. My dad bought him cheap at an auction somewhere, probably because he was so small no one wanted him. He wasn’t big enough to do much work. But I rode that pony everywhere, every day.” He chuckled, but it was a mournful sound. “I would have slept in his stall if my mother had allowed it.

“We were riding in the snow one day, and the pony stepped in a gopher hole. Broke his leg.” His mouth twisted again, a look Margot was coming to recognize as the only reaction to pain he allowed himself. “I ran back to the house, screaming all the way. Dad made me go back with him, and watch as he put my pony down. Shot him in the head with his rifle. I had hysterics.”

Margot hardly dared breathe for fear he would stop talking.

“He waited till I stopped crying enough to hear him, and he told me, ‘Real life, son.’ That was all he ever said about it.” Frank sighed, and opened his hand, as if to let the story go. “A ranch is no place for soft hearts, Margot. It’s a place for men with two arms, two hands. It’s no place for a cripple.”

She could barely find her voice. “That’s a terrible story, Frank. But you’re not a cripple. You have so much—”

“Don’t.” The expression on his face was like iron, his vivid eyes gleaming in the candlelight. She would have bet his father looked just like that when he made a little boy watch him shoot a beloved pony.

Their food arrived, and Margot let the matter drop. She finished her drink, and Frank, finally, emptied his as well. The salmon was drenched in good dairy butter, and sprinkled with chopped parsley and chives. The potatoes were crunchy with fried onions. Frank seemed to throw off his moodiness, and they both ate with good appetite.

Over coffee, she told him that Loena would be going home from the hospital soon, and that her mother, under pressure, had agreed to have her back at Benedict Hall. She didn’t tell him about having to face the board of directors in the morning. She wanted to speak of cheerful things, casual things.

The bill came, and Frank took money from his pocket and paid it. As they left the restaurant, Margot took his arm again. She meant to be careful, but she stumbled slightly on the sill, and gripped it harder than she intended.

Frank sucked in a noisy breath, and she looked up at him in surprise. “Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head, but his lips had gone white. She felt heat blaze through his sleeve.

She dropped her hand, alarmed. “Frank! Is it painful?”

He blew out the breath. “Sorry,” he said. And then, through gritted teeth, “Goddamn it.”

“Why Goddamn it?”

“Can’t even walk my girl down the street,” he said. He took a few steps. She stayed close beside him, but didn’t touch him.

“Frank, it’s been too long for you to still have that much pain! You should be healed by now. Is something wrong?”

He didn’t answer. In the dim light, she saw the muscles of his jaw ripple.

Margot bit her lip as they walked, searching for a way to talk to him. When they reached the ironwork pergola with its carved benches, she said, “Let’s sit a moment.”

He stopped. There were a few people on the street, but the benches were empty. The lights of the square twinkled cheerfully through the dark. A couple passed, their heads bent together. Margot sat down, and scooted over to make room on her left. Frank sat, too, but he put her bag between them. With a decisive movement, she picked it up and set it on her other side. “Tell me about the arm,” she said. “And about the surgery.”

He was silent for a full minute, staring off into the summer night. She waited, pleating her gloves in her lap. She had learned that patients would often tell her what she needed to know, given enough time. It was important not to rush them.

Finally, he blew out a long breath, and let his stiff spine sag against the slats of the bench. “Sorry about swearing.”

“Don’t be silly.”

He shook his head, and she felt that heat from him again, as if something burned inside his body, some banked fire that blazed up at odd moments. She resisted the impulse to take his wrist, feel his pulse.

“I understand the new prostheses are quite good,” she ventured.

“The arm hurts all the time,” he blurted, as if he were admitting some sin. She noted that he said “the arm,” not “my arm.” “They botched it out there in the East, in the field hospital. Tried to repair it in Virginia, but no dice. Turned out I couldn’t tolerate the prosthesis. And—” Another pause. “It looks like hell, Margot.”

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

She didn’t argue with him, but she did battle inside herself. The surgery manual she had been studying had an extensive section on nerves of the arm, and amputation techniques. The physician in her wanted to examine him, to see what she might be able to bring to the problem. The other side of her clung to the sentence he had let slip in his moment of pain. “Can’t even walk my girl down the street.” His girl.

She gave him a sidelong glance. His lips were not so white now, and the heat radiating from him seemed to have lessened. His eyes were closed, his jaw set against whatever emotion troubled him.

“Frank,” she said softly.

He opened his eyes, and looked into her face. “Have I ruined another evening?” he said.

“Of course not. It’s been a lovely evening. But I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t. It’s okay.”

“But chronic pain—”

“I can deal with it.” He stood up, and put out his hand to help her up. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you home on the streetcar.”

“I could telephone for Blake.”

He shook his head. “Let’s not bother him. By the time he could get here, I’ll have you at your front door.”

In the streetcar, Margot took care to sit on Frank’s right side, and when they stepped down and walked up Aloha, she put her hand under his right arm, though he was carrying her bag in his hand. The air was warm, sweet with the smell of pine and fir and the occasional fragrance of roses. It was beguiling, Margot thought, to walk this way, a man and a girl strolling together through a summer evening as if there were no tomorrow to worry about, no board of cynical physicians to face. It made her feel wistful. Vulnerable.

She knew better, by now, than to let herself be vulnerable.

Still, standing in the shadows of the front porch, looking up into the masculine face of Frank Parrish, she felt as soft as any naive girl. Her lips felt tender, and her belly trembled with a sensation that had no medical definition.

She felt him hesitate, and she wished she understood the protocol for such moments. It seemed to be one of those secrets people like Ramona knew, or her mother. She gave a small shrug. “Frank. I know I’m not like other women. I can’t help it.”

His chuckle was quiet. Intimate. He bent to set her bag down on the mat beside the door, and when he straightened, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. Her eyes closed before his mouth found hers. His lips were firm, and his hand against her back was strong. She noticed, briefly, how clean his skin smelled, and then she stopped noticing anything but the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his chest against hers, and that tremulous feeling in her stomach. She kissed him back, leaning into him, tilting her head to the perfect angle.

It seemed she knew the protocol after all.

When he said good night, she stood where she was, watching him walk to the street. Her knees felt like water, and she leaned against the doorjamb until they steadied, smiling into the darkness. She waited a few more minutes, to allow the flush in her cheeks to subside, before she opened the door.

 

Preston twitched the parlor curtain back into place and turned to watch Margot pass the doorway. “Hey, doc,” he called.

She stopped, and turned to face him. The room was dim, lit only by the light of the fire. She squinted through the gloom. “Hello, Preston.”

He crossed the parlor, raising his glass to her as he did so. Ice tinkled in the cut crystal, and light from the fire gleamed in the dusky liquid. “Not very dignified, was it?”

“Was what?”

“Necking on the front porch. You’re not a schoolgirl!”

“You were watching me?” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s rude.”

“Anyone could have watched you!” he exclaimed, laughing. “You were out there giving it away in full view, like some twit of a housemaid.”

“Stop it, Preston.” She stepped into the parlor and shut the door behind her. “We’re not children anymore.” She pulled off her hat in a careless motion, and stuffed her gloves into it. “This has to end.”

“What has to end, sister dear?” He cocked his head to one side to give her his most winning smile.

“You know damn well.”

He spread his hands, nearly spilling his drink. “Tell me.
Doctor
.”

She took another step, until she was no more than an arm’s length away from him. “I’ve never understood, Preston,” she said. “All these years, I’ve never understood why you hate me.”

He turned away and walked to the sideboard at a deliberate pace to pour more scotch into his glass. “You’re an embarrassment, Margot. To the whole family.”

“That’s not true.”

He faced her, his glass in his hand. “Oh, but it is. That revolting little clinic, those filthy people you see—you touch—”

“What do you care? It doesn’t hurt you.”

He gave a sour laugh. “It’s loathsome.”

“It’s not, but never mind that.” She crossed the room, and leaned one hip on the back of the sofa. It was utterly unfeminine, a man’s posture. She folded her arms, and jutted her Benedict chin at him. “It started long before that, in any case. Years before I went to medical school. I thought when you went to war, you would change. Grow up. Get over it.”

“Get over it!” he spat. A fountain of rage began to build inside him. His face grew hot, and he tossed back the scotch in his glass. “What, like a bad cold?” His voice rose. “I was
stuck
with you, Margot! The big sister, the smart sister!”

She raised her eyebrows. In an infuriatingly mild tone, she said, “Why me, Preston? Dick’s also older than you. And probably a whole lot smarter.”

He thought he might choke on his anger. She gazed at him with those dark eyes as if she knew something. Anything. He wanted to take her by the neck, strangle her until she admitted her ignorance. “You don’t fool me!” he shouted. “Father might not see through you, but I do!”

“See what?”

How he hated her, standing there, growing calmer by the moment as he grew so agitated he could hardly draw a breath. “Conniving! Pretending to be better than everyone else! All to make yourself Father’s special, smart little girl! That’s why—” He bit back the words, and turned his head away to stare into the fire crackling in the grate.

“That’s why you did those things, Preston?” she asked. “That’s why you bit me, and burned me, and shoved me out of trees or down stairs? Because you thought I was pretending?” He kept his gaze on the flames. “Answer me,” she insisted, in that maddening, controlled voice. “You started torturing me when I was six years old. No one would believe me, no one would stop you. If it weren’t for Blake—”

His head snapped up. “Blake! He’s the worst of all!”

“Worst of what, Preston? What did anyone
ever
do to make you behave that way?”

He stared at her for long seconds, while fury simmered in his chest, vibrated in his fingers. She had no idea, at this moment, how close she was to death. At last.

“Maybe if you tell me,” she said with that infuriating calm, “if you try to explain—maybe you’ll be able to let go of it, to—”

“Goddamn it!” he shouted, so loudly the windows vibrated. She fell back, and he thought he had frightened her at last. “Don’t play doctor with me, you phony bitch!” He heard the parlor door open, but he didn’t look to see who it was. He was past caring.

He threw his heavy glass at Margot. Ice spattered over the floor as the thick cut crystal spun past her head. It struck the far wall with a heavy
thunk
.

“Preston!” It was Blake’s deep voice, and Blake’s heavy step. “Take control of yourself!”

Preston whirled to glare at him. He found he was panting, his throat burning as if he had swallowed fire. He hated the way his voice sounded, rising, thinning, the shriek of a child. “Leave me alone! You’ve been telling me to take control of myself all my life, and I—I—” He had to take a breath, his head spinning, his lungs aching for air. “I
hate
it!” He wished he had a knife in his hand, a gun, a sword. Something to make Blake back away, to bring fear to his face. He wanted to take control, all right, but not of himself. He wanted to control
them
. He
needed
to control them, and everything they stood for, the unfairness, the favoritism, the—

“Preston,” Margot began.

He spun back toward her, one fist raised. “Goddamn you, Margot,” he shouted. “Always the favorite, Daddy’s precious girl!
Blake’s
favorite! I wish you’d just—just—
die!”

He lunged forward, but Blake’s heavy hand, dark and strong, seized his wrist, held him back. There were more people in the room then, voices, cries of concern, lights coming on. Preston’s free hand moved toward the sapphire. Margot watched him with that sharp gaze of hers, but he couldn’t help that. It had all gotten away from him. He had to smooth this over.

He drew a shuddering breath, and pulled free of Blake’s grasp.

From the doorway his father’s voice rumbled, “What’s going on down here?”

And his mother’s quavering voice crying, “Preston! Darling, whatever’s the matter?”

He let his shoulders slump, and pressed both hands to his face. “Oh, my God,” he moaned. “What just happened? It’s like—it’s like Jerusalem all over again!”