Summer Shadows (29 page)

“Shut up, Morris,” spit the ever-pleasant Lane. “Just get me home.”

Abby couldn’t resist rushing inside to peer out her bedroom window. She watched Lane climb into the rear of the limo wearing what could only be one of Marsh’s T-shirts and her own paint-splotched slacks. Her hair hung like limp blond snakes with occasional
green streaks where her quick shampoo had failed.

Marsh came into view walking beside his father. The senator would have kept walking to the car with no farewell at all if Marsh hadn’t stuck out his hand. His worried eyes on the car, the senator absentmindedly shook Marsh’s hand. Then he climbed in after Lane, and they were gone.

Marsh stood alone in the drive long after the car had disappeared, his face a picture of sadness. Abby felt tears once again rise. Why did parent-child relationships have to be so complex, so complicated, so fraught with pain? Would she and Maddie have been reduced to the tense interactions she shared with Mom? Or worse, to the stiff, polite nonrelationship of Marsh and his father?

Oh, God, it’s not supposed to be this way! Help me. Please help me
.

Mom pulled into the drive just as Marsh disappeared onto his porch. Abby went to help bring up the bags of groceries.

I will be nice. I will be kind. I will be forgiving. I will not lose my temper. I will not speak hastily
.

“Abby, what do you think you’re doing?” Mom asked when Abby appeared beside the car.

Abby’s brows rose at the tone of Mom’s voice, but she answered mildly enough. “I’m helping carry the food upstairs.”

“You are not.” Mom looked horrified. “You cannot do things like this. You’ll give yourself back spasms.”

“Mom, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Remind you of your limitations? Save you from pain?”

Abby leaned over, grabbing a bag. “Don’t try to prevent me from being a normal person.” She started for the stairs.

“But you’re not a normal person. That’s my point.” Mom reached for the bag in Abby’s arms. “You are crippled.”

Twice in one day! Abby shut her eyes against the anger that flared white-hot. She kept a firm grip on the bag full of cold food, biting her lip to keep from saying something she’d regret.

“Come on. Give it to me.” Mom wrapped her arms around the bag.

“No.” Abby twisted to pull the bag free, and a spasm of pain shot across her lower back. It was enough to steal her breath and make her leg buckle. She leaned against the car for a minute, eyes pinned on her mother, daring her to try and take the bag. She
blinked back the tears and told herself pain was all in the mind. She forced herself to walk to the steps, put a hand on the banister, and started pulling.

She pictured Helene the physical therapist standing at the top of the stairs calling, “Push through, Abby. You can do it. Just push through the pain! You did it before. You can do it again.”

After forever she reached the kitchen, put the food in the refrigerator or freezer, and folded the bag. She slid it neatly into the opening by the refrigerator where she’d decided to store such items. She said not a word to her mother who was unloading the two bags she’d carried. Abby knew there were more bags in the car’s trunk. She also knew she couldn’t handle the steps again, not when it was all she could do to simply stand.

She walked down the hall to the bathroom and rummaged through her bottles and vials for the strongest pain medication she had. She dropped two tablets into her hand, downed them with a glass of water, and went to her room without saying good night. The medication soothed the pain, but it was still a restless night.

It was barely past sunrise when she dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and slipped out of her room, taking care not to waken her mother. Picking up her Bible, she went out to the porch. She’d planned to sit at the table reading and praying, but the water called her name.

When she reached the edge of the dry sand, she sank down in the beach chair she had brought along. It was one of the low chairs, just a few inches off the sand. It was the best she could manage with her Bible in one hand, the chair in the other, and no hands left for her cane. She’d just have to struggle when it was time to rise, hoping and praying she didn’t twist her back again. It was either manage to get up or crawl back to the house.

Wouldn’t Mom like that.

Abby stared at the waves, soothed by their movement and sound, marveling at the contradiction they were: constant yet always changing. Sort of like life. Even when someone died, life went on for all those left behind. A different life certainly, but still the constant of breath in, breath out, the ceaseless churning of the mind absorbing information and spitting out conclusions, the inevitable complications of people touching your emotions, your heart.

Oh, God, what do I do about Mom? I love her. I do. But she’s wrong about my frailty. I admit I’ve got problems, dear Lord, lots of them, but I’m not weak. I’m ignorant, confused, uncertain, hurting, but I am not fragile. I refuse to be fragile. Knowing You makes me strong. You can even make me wise. Oh, Lord, please do!

She opened her Bible to Psalm 102 and read the comforting words. “Hear my prayer, O LORD; let my cry for help come to you. Do not hide your face from me when I am in distress. Turn your ear to me; when I call, answer me quickly.”

Turn Your ear and answer, Father. There’s the matter of that note. Why does someone dislike me enough to write something ugly like that? I don’t understand it
.

She flipped back several chapters to Psalm 54. “Hear my prayer, O God; listen to the words of my mouth. Strangers are attacking me; ruthless men seek my life—men without regard for God.… Surely God is my help; the Lord is the one who sustains me.”

Strangers are attacking, Lord. Protect and sustain me. Restore my memory. Let me be able to help by remembering Karlee’s accident. And when I get all upset about not remembering, calm me down
.

She turned to Psalm 94, a favorite during her long recuperation. She needed the assurance of its promises again. “When I said, ‘My foot is slipping,’ your love, O LORD, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul.”

Abby leaned forward in her chair, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees as she wrapped her arms about her legs. Her struggle with her mother felt like the stuff of epics. The hit-and-run and the note felt like acts in the eternal drama of good versus evil.

In contrast, last night’s debacle had been pure farce. There was nothing noble about it. Just thinking about it made her flush scarlet even as she had to giggle yet again at Lane’s expression when the paint hit. She knew she could never face the married Winslows again. She even wondered how she could look Marsh in the eye after her performance.

“Hey, Abby.” As if thinking of him had conjured him up, Marsh appeared at her side with two mugs of coffee. He held one out to her.

“Hi.” She took the mug, studying the scene of Seaside’s boardwalk
printed on it rather than look at him. It amazed her how important this man’s opinion of her had become in such a short time. It actually scared her that he might think her an idiot.

Marsh sank to the sand beside her low-slung chair. He too studied his mug. Then he looked out to sea. “I must apologize to you.”

Startled, Abby turned to him. “You? I was the one—”

“For Lane.” He took a sip. “I’m sure you heard her nasty remarks.”

“You mean cripple?”

He nodded.

“And slumming?”

He sighed. “I thought so.”

“I also heard how shocked your father was, and I heard you tell her to be quiet.”

Marsh’s mouth quirked sardonically. “As I recall,
be quiet
is too polite for what I said.”

She found she could smile too.

“Of course you more than got back at her.” Marsh looked at her over the rim of his cup, eyes twinkling.

Abby squeezed her eyes shut as if she could block her mind-reel from replaying the scene. “I didn’t do it on purpose. You do know that?”

“Of course you didn’t. You couldn’t. First off, you’re too nice, and secondly, no one is clever enough to time something like that to the precise second.”

“I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“Probably not.” Then his mouth started to twitch. He fought it a minute, gave up, and smiled broadly. Then he started to laugh, great gusts of hilarity escaping him. “She ran into the bathroom, threw her clothes in the wastebasket, and climbed into the shower. She was there so long I thought she’d scrub her skin off.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Then she wrapped herself in a huge beach towel and ordered my father to find her some clothes.”

Abby could imagine Lane, eaten with anger, stalking about the apartment, her hair wet and dripping, her makeup gone. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t know what to do. I gave her a pair of my shorts
and a T-shirt to wear home. She took the shirt but refused the shorts. She pulled her slacks out of the trash.”

“Were they wrinkled?”

“Very. Now why does that make you smile?”

Abby slapped her hand over her mouth, shaking her head. “It’s too catty of me. I hope it wasn’t a favorite shirt.”

“Nope. I knew I’d never see it again.” Marsh sifted sand through his fingers. “You were right, you know. Poor Dad. Lucky me.”

Abby looked at him closely. “You don’t mind that you lost her?”

“It’s a bit awkward that she’s married to my father—”

“I would think that’s an understatement.”

He nodded. “But I thank God every day that she’s not my wife.” He looked at her and gave a shy half-grin. “Especially recent days.”

Abby flushed and ducked her head, pleased beyond reason at the comment. She looked out to sea and drank her coffee.

“What about you, Abby? Do you still miss Sam?”

It was Abby’s turn to hide her nervousness by playing in the sand. “It’s sad, but I don’t miss him anymore. I feel bad about that. He was a nice man, and he deserves to be missed. Now Maddie.” Her throat closed; she had to clear it before she could go on. “I’ll miss her until the day I die.”

Marsh reached out and took her hand, and at once she felt comforted. They sat in silence for a minute, neither making any move to unlink their hands. Then he asked, “Can you tell me about Sam?”

Abby took a deep breath. “He was a strong personality. He was also very good looking, very charming. I was eighteen when I met him, and I was bowled over. I found it amazing that he was taken with me and comforting that he always knew what was right for me, for himself, for the world. Life didn’t look so frightening with him there to solve all the puzzles and answer all the questions.”

“Your parents liked him?” Marsh asked.

“They did. They felt he would take good care of their baby girl. We married the day after I graduated. The first couple of years I was very happy. Cozy. Sam was attentive and kind. Then as I slowly began to think for myself, he felt threatened. As my relationship with the Lord deepened and matured, he felt uncomfortable. It upset him that I thought things or wanted to do things he
didn’t. I’m not certain why. I wasn’t trying to undermine him or his position.”

“Maybe he wasn’t as confident as he seemed. Maybe he needed you as his acolyte, not his equal.”

She thought about Marsh’s comment for a few minutes but couldn’t decide whether she agreed or not. “Maybe. Who knows? I do know that we would have stayed married in spite of the tensions. We wouldn’t have been joyously pleased with each other, but we wouldn’t have been seriously displeased either. There never would have been cause for divorce.” She waved her hand in a vague circle. “And who knows—he might have changed, loosened up.”

“I’m sort of surprised your mother liked him.” He made the comment warily, like he wasn’t sure what her reaction would be.

Abby grinned. “You’re thinking of how fond she is of you.”

“Yes, though I don’t think fond is quite the right word.”

“She liked Sam a lot. It hurt her terribly when he died.” Abby stared at their clasped hands. “I think what she liked most was that he would keep me the pliant, pleasant daughter I’d always been.”

“Who wants pliant?” Marsh gave her hand a squeeze. “Though pleasant can be very nice.”

She screwed up her face, contrite. “Pleasant seems to have gone missing lately. I lost my temper at Mom again last night.” It felt like a confession.

He studied her face. “Why?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me how terrible I was and quote, ‘Honor your father and your mother’ at me?”

He shrugged. “Maybe sometime later when I find out what happened, but right now I’d like to know why.” He took her empty cup from her hand, setting it in the sand. “I figure you feel guilty enough without my help.”

She studied his profile as he twisted the mug back and forth in the sand, drilling it deeper with each twist. “You’re a very nice man, Marsh Winslow.” It was as close as she could come to articulating how much she appreciated his assumption that she had a good reason or at least some reason for her behavior.

He just smiled and waited.

“She was taking over again. She wanted to pay for all the food.”

“And you didn’t want her to?”

“It’s my house. I’m the hostess. I buy the food.” Her voice was dogmatic and more than a little defensive. She waited for his rebuttal.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” he said, completely disarming her.

But there was more to confess. “Then she didn’t want me to carry any of the grocery bags upstairs.”

He raised a finger. “Let me guess. You insisted.”

“I grabbed the bag away from her when she reached for it.” Abby grimaced. “Sort of like a mad little kid yelling, ‘It’s mine!’ ”

He tilted his head, eyeing her. “But you very much regret behaving like that.”

“I do. I really do.” She was so thankful he understood. Here she’d told him she’d been a rude idiot, and he still held her hand. No doubt about it, he was one in a million.

He smiled at her with a special warmth that made her chest tighten. “In fact,” he said, “I admire you greatly for standing up for yourself.”

She loved him; she knew it. Anyone who thought her a reasonable, thinking woman capable of wise choices was without doubt the man for her.