Maggy's Child (27 page)

“By God, I
am
going to kill him!” Nick’s response was passionate. “Why didn’t you leave him years ago?”

“Because of David,” Maggy said wearily, already knowing that Nick was not going to understand. “He would never, ever have let me have David.”

“Does he hit the kid?” Nick sounded as if he was having to work hard just to keep his voice even.

Maggy laughed, the sound sharp and unpleasant. “I’d leave him in a heartbeat if he ever laid a violent hand on David. I’d steal David and run, and to hell with the consequences. But I am as morally certain as it is possible to be that Lyle would never do anything to harm David. In his own twisted way he loves the child, and David worships the ground that he walks on. Sometimes I think David is—almost—more his son than mine.”

It hurt to say it, to have Nick hear it. But it was true. One reason that she was afraid to try to take David from Lyle was because there was always the possibility that David, if given the choice, would choose Lyle over herself. Lyle was a consummate athlete, proficient in every sport he tried: golf, tennis, swimming, sailing, skiing. He was handsome, confident, always very much the man in charge. Practically everyone in Louisville asked
how high
when Lyle said
jump
. David was dazzled by these facts, by Lyle’s aura of power and invincibility. And David had been raised as the heir, the lion’s cub. Windermere and everything that went with it would be David’s one day, and David knew it. How could the mere fact that she was David’s mother and loved him compete with that?

She hated Lyle, was afraid of him, and was miserable as his wife. She feared his influence over her son. With every atom of her being, she wished she could use some of
Tia
Gloria’s much-vaunted psychic power to zap Lyle out of existence. But she couldn’t, and in any contest between them, including a divorce, she would come out the loser,
and she knew it. Lyle held all the aces. Her own hand held only one trump, and it was pitifully weak compared to his. Using it would involve badly, perhaps mortally, wounding David. And in the end, it might not do any good at all.

She could not take her own happiness at the expense of her son’s. She would not.

“Does anybody else know about him beating you up? His mother, the housekeeper?”

Maggy shook her head. “I—don’t think so. I—didn’t want them to know. I cleaned up the blood where he kicked me in the head, and then when I found I couldn’t move around very easily, I stayed in bed. As far as they know, I’ve had the flu.”

“Didn’t you scream? Call for help?”

“I didn’t want Virginia to hear.” The words were so low that they were barely audible. “I didn’t want anyone to hear.”

Nick muttered something explosive under his breath.

“You probably ought to see a doctor,” he said after a moment, as if thinking aloud. “That cut on your head needs to be looked at, and he may have cracked a rib or something.”

“No!” Maggy’s voice was sharp.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to!” Maggy hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. She added more quietly, “I’d be too ashamed.”

“Ashamed! You?” Nick sounded both furious and dumbfounded. “
You
haven’t done anything.”

“I know, but …” Maggy sighed, suddenly weary of the discussion that she could already see might continue fruitlessly through the night. “Could we save the rest of this conversation for later, please? My head hurts, and I have to use the bathroom, and I’m starving.”

“You are not going back to Forrest if I have to handcuff
you to my wrist for the rest of your life.” Nick sounded as if he were on the verge of choking with suppressed fury.

“I’d like that,” Maggy said with a flickering smile, hoping to lighten the atmosphere before Nick totally lost his temper with her.

“I’m serious, damn it!”

“I know. So am I.”

Nick stared hard at her. “Magdalena, you’ve got a nasty-looking cut on your head and bruises over most of the rest of you. We’ve already established that your bastard of a husband has scared you good and proper of sex. So why the hell are you batting those big brown eyes at me all of a sudden, and cooing at me like you’re daring me to kiss you?”

“Because old habits die hard?” Maggy ventured with a twinkle. With her, Nick had always been safe as a church and steady as a rock, and she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t about to try to throw her down on the rug and have his wicked way with her. Therefore, she saw no danger in teasing him just a little. She was so tired of feeling depressed, and scared. The last three days had been among the most miserable of her life. She wanted to be happy while she could. Since half of Louisville probably knew by now how Nick had carried her off, and the other half would surely know by this time tomorrow, there was no way she was going to be able to keep it from Lyle. Lyle would be beside himself with rage. The prospect frightened her, but it had its up side: he was going to be so furious over that that nothing she did now could possibly make it worse.

He was out of town for another two and a half weeks. She was going to steal this time with Nick.

Then she would decide what she had to do. If she had to take her lumps from Lyle, she would. But for now, just for a little while, she was going to put Lyle and all her troubles out of her mind. She was going to snatch a little happiness.

Surely two weeks’ worth was not too much to ask after twelve years.

“Get off my lap, witch.”

Sensing her change in mood, Nick surrendered to it, though she knew, as the expression went, that he’d be back to fight another day. He gave her rear a gentle swat—she figured it would have been harder if he’d been sure she didn’t have bruises there, too—and she slid to her feet, surprised to find that she was not quite steady on them. He stood up behind her, grimacing as blood rushed into muscles that had remained in one position for too long, and steadied himself and her with his hands on her shoulders.

“Bathroom’s through there,” he said, pointing toward a door that was just visible along the hall. “I’m going to go out to the kitchen and see what I can find for us to eat. If you feel dizzy, or need help, give me a shout.”

“Yes, sir,” she said with a glimmering smile over her shoulder for him and went along to the bathroom.

After taking care of business, she did up her blouse at long last, washed her hands, and grimaced into the mirror. Her hair stood out all around her head like a squirrel’s nest made of bright reddish autumn leaves. Crying had left her eyes swollen and puffy, and her face as white as if she’d just risen from an encounter with Dracula. The makeup she had carefully applied to cover the bruises on her face had vanished, presumably on the front of Nick’s suit. Not a trace of lipstick remained on her, but a smear of black under one eye bore silent witness to the fact that her mascara was not as waterproof as the ads claimed. She looked a fright, and she couldn’t stand it.

Twisting her hair into a knot at her nape, she washed her face with plain soap and cold water, figuring that it didn’t matter if Nick saw the bruises on her forehead and cheek now. They were nothing, compared with the injuries he had already seen. That done, she swished a swallow of mouthwash around in her mouth and spat. Then
she carefully (because of the cut, which was still very sensitive) smoothed her hair with a comb she found on the back of the toilet. Hunting through the medicine cabinet for anything she might possibly use as a cosmetic, she had no luck. But she did find a bottle of Tylenol and took two of the tablets, swallowing them with a handful of water. In a few minutes, she hoped, the pounding in her head would begin to subside.

Feeling better than she had in three days, she left the bathroom and headed for the only room with light blazing through the door.

It was a typical farm kitchen, with white-painted cabinets and appliances, a speckled linoleum floor, and red gingham café curtains at the windows. A big chrome-legged table straight out of the fifties claimed pride of place at one end beneath a bank of small windows. Nick had already set two places on it, and a plastic tub of butter and cardboard containers of salt and pepper adorned the middle. Nick himself was bending to peer into the open oven, a cooking mitt on one hand and a long-handled fork in the other. As she watched, he flipped the second of a pair of sizzling steaks, then slid the pan back under the broiler, and straightened, shutting the oven door. He wore just his white shirt and gray suit pants, with the shirt unbuttoned at the collar and its sleeves rolled up past his elbows to expose hard-looking, hairy forearms. His face was flushed from the heat of the oven, his hair was mussed, and his cheeks and jaw were dark with stubble.

He looked handsomer to her like that than any other man ever had in her life.

“Smells good,” she said, walking into the kitchen. He glanced around at her, smiling.

“Hey, unlike you, I’m a good cook, remember? Unless you’ve improved since I last ate one of your burned offerings.”

“Not much,” she admitted, wandering close to peer interestedly over his shoulder at the contents of the pots
on the stove. Ears of corn bubbled in one, while butter melted into peas in the other.

“I’m impressed,” she said, and her stomach growled to prove it.

“Go sit down. This’ll be ready in a minute.”

Maggy moved toward the table, then hesitated. “I need to call Windermere, and let them know I haven’t been kidnapped or anything. Before they get really alarmed, and do something stupid like phone the police, or Lyle.” She hated to even bring up the subject of Lyle again, before it was absolutely necessary. But she needed to make the call, too, and she wasn’t going to do it behind Nick’s back. She was never going to tell another lie to Nick as long as she lived.

Nick turned around, fork in hand, to frown at her. Maggy met his gaze unflinchingly.

“So call,” he said finally. “But you’re not going back.”

“Did I say I was?”

Nick’s mouth twisted. “Phone’s on the wall,” he said, and turned back to the stove.

“W
ho
was
that man?”

Lucy demanded shrilly as soon as Maggy identified herself. Maggy, wincing, wished she had hung up as soon as she heard her sister-in-law’s voice. She would rather have talked to Virginia. But maybe not. Maybe Virginia would have asked her questions she wasn’t prepared, just at the moment, to answer.

“A friend.” Her voice was cool.

“Are you having an affair with him?”

“No, I’m not. Not that it’s any of your business, is it?”

“Everyone thinks you are. You should have seen Linda Brantley’s face! Oh, and Connie Mason’s! They were shocked—shocked! We all were! Mother was nearly prostrate, and it’s weakened her so that she has already gone to bed. At six o’clock! Not that I blame her: you were embracing that man in our house with your blouse half off! And for him to carry you out of the house like that in front of our friends—we’ll never live it down! Lyle will just die when he hears! I’ve already placed a call to him, though they say he’s in transit right now and it may be a couple of days before he gets my message. Mother keeps begging me not to tell him, but I think it’s my duty to. I don’t want to cause trouble for you, Maggy, but he’ll hear it from someone, believe me, and I think it best that he hear it from family first.…”

“Lucy,” Maggy interrupted, unable to listen to more as her stomach tightened with nerves. She could almost feel
Lyle’s tentacles reaching out for her, as if he could snatch her back even over the phone line. “I called to tell Virginia I won’t be home for a few days. I’m going to be staying with friends.”

“Friends!” Lucy snorted. “Don’t insult my intelligence! You’re with that man! Who
is
he, anyway? Sarah said it was probably that old boyfriend of yours Buffy brought to your birthday party, but she can’t remember his name. She’s going to call Buffy and ask.”

“Tell her not to bother.” Maggy’s voice turned to ice. “His name is Nick. Nick King.
K-i-n-g
, got it? And yes, he’s the friend I’m staying with. So now you can tell Lyle all about it when you talk to him.”

“You—you blatant
adulteress
,” Lucy gasped.

“Tell Virginia I’ll be in touch, will you please?” Maggy said, and hung up the phone. When she let go of the receiver she was surprised to find that her hands were shaking.

“Bitch,” she said to the wall. Then, more viciously, “Bitch!”

“Hey. You okay?” Nick’s arms came around her from behind, pulling her against him. For a moment she stood stiffly in his embrace, and then she relaxed against his chest. His arms were warm around her middle. Almost unconsciously, her hands folded over his forearms, noting the heat and hardness of them, the silky texture of the hair over the warm satin of his skin, and the size and sheer masculinity of his hands.

“That was Lyle’s sister. She’s just like him.”

“Bitch,” Nick echoed her description companionably. Something about the way he said it made Maggy start to smile in spite of herself.

“She is,” she insisted.

“I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

“She wanted to know who you are.”