The Harder They Fall (18 page)

“You don’t have to miss me anymore,” she replied.

“Is that the bedroom?” he said, pointing to the closed door behind them.

“That’s it.”

He picked her up without comment and she turned the door handle as they went through it. He set her on the bed and began to take off her clothes.

“I thought I’d never make love to you again,” he said shakily, bungling his attempt to unfasten her blouse.

“Let me do it,” she said and discarded her top and skirt.

He seized her and bore her back down on the bed before she could finish undressing.

“I can handle the rest,” he said, and he did. He was hungry, wild, kissing each part of her body as he uncovered it, pausing only to strip quickly and join her again. He entered her as soon as she embraced him and she arched her back to meet him, sobbing.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, pulling her close.

“I’m so happy,” she replied.

“You’ll always be happy from now on. I mean it,” he said, and she believed him.

* * * *

An hour later they were curled up on her bed like two puppies napping in a basket, enjoying the sensation of closeness they had both missed so sorely.

“This is a nice apartment,” he said suddenly.

“You just noticed that?” she replied teasingly.

“I mean, the colors go together and everything. It looks good. I guess women are better at that stuff than men.”

“Is that a reference to Ginny Porter?”

“Well, she had a nice place too,” he said dryly.

“How is dear old Ginny?”
 

“She moved to Las Vegas two weeks after you left.”

“But not before she gave you the old college try one last time, correct?”

“She didn’t get anywhere. I haven’t been with a woman since you came back here.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I couldn’t think about anybody else but you. And of course I had other problems once I put that guy in a cast,” he said.

Helene sat up. “What guy?” she said in a strong voice.

He looked at her. “Maria didn’t tell you?”

“No, it seems she skipped the best part.”

“I guess she didn’t want to upset you.”

“What happened?”

“Well, when they wouldn’t let me see you at the hospital, I put up a fight.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“The security guard who tried to stop me—I hit him.”

“And?”

“I broke his jaw. And his wrist.”

“Oh, Chris.”

“I didn’t meant to. Everything just got out of hand. Actually, I only broke his jaw with a punch—he broke his wrist when he fell.”

“Gee, that makes a big difference.”

“And now he’s suing me,” he added glumly.

Helene couldn’t help it. She started to giggle.

“It isn’t funny,” he said darkly.

“What is he suing you for?”
 

“Assault or something, I don’t know. Brockman says I have to write him a letter apologizing and offering a monetary settlement. That will most likely keep it out of court.”

“Brockman could retire on your business alone.”

“I’d like to go into court and explain the situation. I’d probably get off scot free.”

“Don’t count on it. Most people don’t think violence is an appropriate reaction to stress.”

He traced the line of her collarbone with his finger. “I promise I’ll do better.”

“You’ll have to, Chris, or we’ll never be able to afford the legal bills.”

“Just think of the money we’ll be saving by skipping the divorce,” he said, grinning.

She shot him a look and his grin widened.

“Speaking of that,” he said, “do you still have the wedding ring I gave you?”

“Of course. Did you think I hocked it?”

“You’re not wearing it.”

“Up until a couple of hours ago, my dear, I was sure I wouldn’t need it.”

“Now you will. Let’s have a big wedding as soon as possible, in church with a reception—the works. Maria can be matron of honor, she’ll get a kick out of that.”

“We’ll see. I have to think about it.”

He fell across her in mock despair. “Oh, no, she’s thinking again,” he said dramatically.

“Not for long,” she replied, bending to kiss the back of his neck.

“Are you starting something?” he asked, turning to embrace her again.
 

“I certainly hope so.”
 

“Then I’ll finish it,” he said.
 

And he did.

Epilogue

“Martin, what do you have behind your back?” Helene asked patiently, watching the toddler closely.

He presented her with an expression as innocent and angelic as that of a Botticelli Madonna.
 

“Show me,” she said.
 

He shook his head.

Helene sighed. “We don’t want to bother Daddy with this when he comes in, do we? He has other things on his mind today.”

Martin considered that for a long moment, then thrust his fist forward, still clenched.
 

“Open,” she said.
 

His fingers relaxed.
 

“Bug,” he announced.

“Yes, indeed, that is a bug,” Helene said, wrinkling her nose as she examined the rather large, very dead bee. The insect was cradled in the palm of the child’s hand on its back, multiple legs curled upward in final surrender.

“May I have it?” she asked.

“Mine,” Martin said stubbornly.

One look into his brown eyes, so like his father’s, convinced her that a contest of wills was about to ensue.

“Gee, I wonder if Maria made that lemonade she promised you,” Helene said brightly, shamelessly employing a diversionary tactic. “Do you think it’s ready?”

He glanced toward the house.

“I know what. Why don’t you leave the bee here with me while you get your drink and then you can pick him up later?”

“Okay.” He handed her his inanimate prize and went over to the door, pressing his nose to the screen. Helene tossed the bee carcass into the grass as she watched Maria admit him to the house. She wondered how long she would be able to outwit him—he was, after all, not yet two. It didn’t bode well for the future that he was presenting a challenge already.

“Any for you?” Maria called from the doorway, holding up a plastic pitcher.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ve started dinner,” Maria added.

“I’m coming in,” Helene replied, shifting her lesson plans off her lap and setting them on the picnic table. She was teaching Martin’s preschool class on Saturday morning and she was two weeks behind in her scheduling. Oh, well. It would have to wait. She went up the back steps and into the house.

Martin was sitting at the kitchen table, kicking his legs and sipping from a glass decorated with cartoon characters. Maria was at the stove, checking the roast in the oven and simultaneously stirring the contents of a pot.

“Ah, there you are,” Maria said, putting down her spoon and untying her apron briskly. “Turn this oven off in ten minutes and I’m going to cover the pot and reduce the heat. The tomatoes should be ready in about half an hour.”

Helene nodded. “Thanks.”

“More,” Martin said, extending his empty glass.

“No more,” Helene replied.

“More,” Martin said again, waving the glass imperiously.

“That’s full of sugar, young man. One glass is quite enough,” Helene said sternly.

“Cookie,” Martin said.

Maria chuckled under her breath.

“Don’t encourage him.” To her son she said, “I think you’re missing the point, boy of mine. No more lemonade, no cookies, no goodies of any kind. We’re having dinner just as soon as your father gets here.”

“Bug,” he said, looking at her.

“Oh, dear, I was really hoping he’d forgotten about that,” Helene sighed.

“What?” Maria said, picking up her purse.

“He found a dead bee in the yard.”

“Where is it?”

“I threw it away and now he wants it back.”

“Good luck,” Maria said, grinning.

“Why doesn’t he play with trains or something?” Helene said despairingly. “He’s always finding things outside and bringing them in, rocks and shells and plants—once it was a discarded skin some snake had shed.” She shuddered.

“Maybe he’ll be one of those scientists who classifies things.”

“Good, then he can pay for my psychiatric care. If he hands me one more grisly object I will go mad.”

“You’re just not used to little boys.” Maria slipped into her sweater and ruffled Martin’s hair affectionately. “He has a fine, curious mind. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Martin grinned up at her, displaying a perfect set of baby teeth, rows of tiny pearls.

“You spoil him,” Helene chided her.

“Of course, that’s what godmothers are for,” Maria replied, winking as she passed the table. “I’ll see you on Friday,” she called in farewell, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Maria’s gone,” Martin announced.

“Yes, but she’ll be back. Now let’s hiphop like a bunny and wash your hands so you’ll be ready for dinner.”

“Bug,” he said.

“Buster, the bug is outside, where he will remain. We’ll look for him tomorrow. Come on.”

He slipped off the chair and took her hand as they walked down the hall. Helene felt a surge of tenderness for him, for the little fingers placed so trustingly in hers, for the cowlick growing at the part in his hair, exactly where Chris had one. It was hard to imagine that in fifteen years he would undoubtedly be breaking hearts, just like his father. Right now he seemed so small.

When they reached the bathroom he pushed his stool into position so he could reach the taps and turned them on, testing the temperature. Helene handed him a bar of soap and watched as he lathered industriously, the water turning brackish as it ran off his hands. She sighed mentally. No matter how many times she bathed him, he was always filthy.

They both heard the door slam and Martin dropped the soap immediately, scrambling off the stool.

“Daddy!” he screamed, lurching into the doorway.

“Where’s my boy?” Chris called back. Helene stepped into the hall in time to see Chris scoop the squirming child into his arms and swing him in a circle. Martin chortled appreciatively as Chris tickled him and then set him down.

“And there’s my gorgeous wife,” Chris said, spying her and extending his arm. Helene fitted herself into its curve and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Has my son been behaving himself?” Chris asked.

“No,” Helene replied, laughing.

“What?” Chris said, feigning surprise.

“Now he’s collecting bees,” she said in an undertone.

“Collecting?”

“Well, actually it was only one and it was dead, but I fear the beginning of a trend.”

“Bug,” Martin said delightedly, tugging on Chris’ jeans.

“See?” Helene said darkly.

“He’s a botanist!” Chris declared, picking the child up again.

“That’s plants, Chris.”

“A natural historian, then. A genius of some kind, that’s certain. And now, wonder boy, let’s see what Mom’s got cooking for our dinner.”

Helene trailed after them, shaking her head, as Chris carried Martin into the kitchen.

* * * *

“Time for bed,” Helene announced, as she finished buttoning her son’s pajamas. They were both dressed for bed, but Martin was pulling his usual delaying tactics.

“Time for story,” Martin countered, grinning slyly.

“All right, just one.”

“Sad little pony,” the child announced, pointing to the bookshelf beside his bed.

“Okay, go get it.”

Martin retrieved his favorite book and settled himself on the bed as Helene resigned herself to yet another reading of the same story. He never seemed to tire of hearing about the “sad little, bad little” pony, who couldn’t be trained and was always in trouble. Helene was afraid it was because he identified with it.

“There once was a sad little pony,” she began, turning the well worn page as she talked. The book was falling apart, the binding a mass of desiccated glue, but Martin refused a replacement. He was attached to this particular copy, as well as the story, which featured his two great loves, horses and dogs. His lips moved along with hers as she read; he had the text memorized.

“Again,” he said, when she finished.

“Martin, Daddy will be back with Rover any minute now. We don’t have time.”

Chris had gone to pick up their dog from the vet’s. As if in response to her statement, the car pulled into the drive.