The Mother Of His Child. Sandra Field

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СКАЧАТЬ trembling. Although she braced her elbows on the table and willed her hands to steadiness, they wouldn’t obey her.

      The bottom of the door scraped on the black plastic floor mat. “What kind of doughnut, Kit?” one of the girls called out.

      “Double chocolate. Maybe that way I’ll stay awake in math class.”

      The others giggled. Another voice said, “Boston cream for me. Kit, did you study for the test?”

      “Yeah…my dad made me.”

      One of the others groaned in sympathy. “My mum did, too. I wanted to watch a MuchMusic video instead.” In a wicked parody of an adult’s voice, she went on, “‘Not until the weekend, Lizzie.’ Mothers are such a drag.”

      “Shut up, Lizzie,” Kit flared.

      “Oops, sorry,” Lizzie said. “I’ll have a maple cream and share it with you, Kit.”

      “Okay. You know what? I’m going to ace that test,” Kit said confidently. “I’ve got to keep my marks up or I’m off the basketball team. Dad said so.”

      Kit’s voice was light, higher-pitched than Marnie’s. Willing herself to stop shaking, Marnie listened as the girls paid for their doughnuts and trooped out of the coffee shop. Over the top of the paper she caught one last glimpse of Kit. She was taking a big bite out of the double chocolate doughnut; she was wearing Levi’s and a baggy purple sweatshirt. Marnie’s favorite color was purple.

      Marnie sat still, gazing blindly at the newsprint, trying to assimilate the fact that after thirteen years she had actually seen her daughter. Heard her voice. Had evidence, she thought wryly, of Kit’s quick temper, so like Marnie’s. Kit hadn’t liked Lizzie’s remark about mothers. Did that mean Kit still missed her mother? It must.

      What had Jennifer Huntingdon been like? Warm and loving? Strong-willed? Happy?

      A gang of teenage boys rocketed through the door, their energy making Marnie wince. She listened as they argued about doughnuts, then watched them leave with relief. What did Kit think about boys? Was she interested in them yet? Or did basketball interest her more?

      You’ll never know the answer to those questions, Marnie. Because Kit is Cal’s daughter, not yours.

      Slowly, Marnie lowered the newspaper, trying desperately to ignore the storm of emotion engulfing her whole body. Now what? she wondered. What do I do next?

      When she’d decided last night that she was going back to Burnham despite Cal’s warnings, she hadn’t gotten any further than seeing Kit. Well, she’d seen her. Seen her friends, noticed her clothes, heard her voice. That’s it, Marnie. Kit’s happy enough, even if she does still miss her mother. Certainly she’s well looked after financially. You’ve done everything you can do. Now you’ve got to return to Faulkner and stay away from Burnham. The last thing you can risk is bumping into your daughter on the street. You can’t do that to her. It would be utterly unfair.

      Moving like a woman much older than thirty, Marnie left her unfinished coffee and her newspaper on the table and walked out of the shop. She was going to drive home and cry her eyes out for the second time in as many days. She hardly ever cried. But that was what she was going to do.

      It didn’t make much sense to cry—after all, she now had a face and a voice for her daughter where yesterday she’d had nothing—but she knew she had to do it. She ached all over, as though someone had pounded her body mercilessly in her sleep: an ache both physical and emotional, the same ache she’d suffered in that hospital bed in the private clinic so many years ago.

      As she turned up a side street, she passed from sunlight into shade. She didn’t see the man standing statue-still between the two nearest buildings; rather, she was reaching into the pocket of her jeans for the keys to Christine’s car, her mind anywhere but on her surroundings. Not until a tanned, strong-fingered and unmistakably masculine hand fastened itself around her elbow was she jerked out of her reverie. “You’re coming with me,” Cal Huntingdon said in a clipped voice infused with rage, “and don’t bother arguing.”

      With a strange sense of inevitability, Marnie looked up. Had she really thought she’d get away with her caper in the coffee shop? Saying the first thing that came into her head, she muttered, “I didn’t see the Cherokee.”

      “I parked it on the next street. I didn’t see that wreck you’re driving, either. Come on.”

      He was pulling on her arm as though she were eight years old. She said coldly, “I’m perfectly capable of walking to your car. Let go.”

      “No.”

      Although he hadn’t loosened his grip, Cal did stop tugging so hard. His fingers were warm; as she marched along beside him, Marnie discovered to her dismay that she liked the contact. Liked his height, the way his gray shirt was rolled up to his elbows, the tanned column of his throat. Scared to death by this realization, she said defiantly, “You didn’t see my car because I borrowed a friend’s.”

      “I figured you’d pull a stunt like that. Which is why I was watching for you.”

      “Don’t you think you should be at work? To pay for the very expensive house I drove past this morning?”

      “It’s paid for, Marnie Carstairs. Every shingle and tree root. I’m surprised you didn’t bang on the door to check out the furniture.”

      To her annoyance, Marnie couldn’t come up with a retort that would sound anything other than pettish. They’d reached the Cherokee; she climbed in and fastened her seat belt. As Cal turned on the ignition, she said with deliberate provocation, “Where are we going? Home for coffee?”

      “Don’t push your luck,” he growled, then pulled out into the street.

      “Or are you planning to fling me over the nearest cliff?”

      “I’ve thought of it, believe me,” he said tightly. “We’re getting the hell out of Burnham and then we’re going to have a talk. During which I shall make a few things clear to you. In the meantime, why don’t you just shut up?”

      It seemed like good advice. Marnie gazed out the window as though the drugstore across the street was the most interesting building she’d ever seen.

      Once they’d left Burnham, Cal turned onto the highway that would lead eventually to Faulkner Beach. When he came to the picnic spot where Marnie had eaten her lunch the day before, he wheeled into it. There were no other cars there. Why would there be? thought Marnie. Most people don’t picnic for breakfast. He even chose the same table as she had.

      She slid out of the Cherokee and sat down on top of the table, facing the sea, her feet resting on the bench. The buds were still tight on the trees, although a song sparrow was piping its melody from a nearby birch. The ocean glinted as though it were alive, the waves chuckling among the rocks. “No cliffs,” she said. “That’s a relief.”

      Cal stationed himself in front of her, his back to the water. Shoulders hunched, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, he looked at her unwaveringly. His gray shirt was open at the throat as though he was immune to the cool ocean breeze; his hair shone with cleanliness, and he was clean shaven. He did not, Marnie noticed, look the slightest bit amused by her pert remark. Not that she really felt pert. She wasn’t sure how she felt.

      She’d СКАЧАТЬ