A Self-Made Man (21 page)

“Hey, I made it pretty clear I didn't want a mother.”

“I know. But you didn't mean that. Everyone
wants to be loved. But I was too wrapped up in my own problems to see clearly. And then, when I miscarried…” Her voice stumbled. “When I lost the baby…”

Whatever momentum had been driving her seemed to evaporate with the sound of that one little word. She swallowed a lonely, strangled sound and bowed her head again.

Without realizing it, Gwen had edged around the banister, and stood now on the lowest step, looking up.

“You lost the baby?” She moved two more steps, up the treads, until she and Lacy were only three more steps apart. “You
miscarried
the baby?” She stared at Lacy, trying to remember the day she had gone to the hospital, but she couldn't. It was all a blur, lost in a fog of time.

“Oh, my God. I always thought— Lacy…why didn't you ever
tell
me that was what happened?”

Lacy shook her head. “I never told anyone. Your father didn't want anyone to know, especially you. I had no idea you had overheard anything…anything about…”

Slowly, she sank to a sitting position, as if her strength had completely ebbed away. “But none of it matters anymore. It's over. It's been over for a long time. I just didn't want to face it.”

“Oh, Lacy,” Gwen blurted urgently. “I'm sorry.”

She covered the distance between them without thinking. Kneeling on the tread just below Lacy, she touched her shoulder hesitantly, as if she weren't sure
the gesture would be welcome. She couldn't remember when she had last touched her stepmother.

Amazingly, Lacy didn't pull away. Gwen put her arm around Lacy's shoulders, registering a low ache of surprise to discover that she was so slight and fragile. Lacy had always seemed so powerful, so much larger than life.

But Gwen had been wrong about so many things. She felt tears starting behind her eyes. She had been such a fool.

“It wasn't all your fault,” she said softly. “I've been a horrible bitch. I made things so much more difficult for you. Oh, Lacy. I'm so terribly sorry.”

“I know,” Lacy said, almost inaudibly. She buried her face in her arms. She wasn't crying, but Gwen knew that meant only that her misery was beyond tears. “It's all right, Gwen. I know.”

Tentatively, Gwen wrapped her other arm around her, too. Lacy didn't protest. Instead, she turned slightly, tilting her head into Gwen's arm. That one vulnerable gesture somehow spoke a benediction of forgiveness.

Gwen shut her eyes, absorbing Lacy's warmth, the way any child draws comfort from acceptance and love. It spread through her like honey, sweetening things that had long been too bitter to bear. Oh, she had wanted this for so long. To be held. To be forgiven. To be family.

And then someone was crying, but it still wasn't Lacy. It was Gwen, who, in spite of everything, had finally taken the first step on her long way home.

“F
RANKLY
,” G
WEN SAID
as she squatted down to hand the tape to Lacy, who was already kneeling on the far side of the package they were wrapping, “I don't see why you're going to all this trouble just to
give
this painting away.”

Lacy smiled and wrapped the tape carefully over the brown padded paper. “Well, frankly
I'm
glad we
can
give it away. I'm surprised anyone agreed to accept it.”

“Yeah, who took it, anyhow? The New England Museum for the Blind?”

Lacy chuckled. Gwen's unique and spicy brand of companionship had made the past two days much easier. Once she and Gwen had finally begun talking—really talking—they had discovered that they actually had a great deal in common. Their mutual dislike of
Saturday Morning: Half Past Paradise,
for instance. Gwen admitted that she used to avoid the parlor altogether just so she wouldn't have to look at the thing.

Lacy cut the edge of the tape and rocked back onto her heels, surveying the little parlor. The portrait of Malcolm and Lacy had already been banished to the attic, and the room looked strangely clean without the two overbearing paintings dominating the walls.

“Having second thoughts?” Gwen was perched on the edge of Malcolm's desk, watching Lacy while she munched on sunflower seeds. “You know you don't have to leave on my account. We might just have a great time, being single chicks here together. Of course, we'd have to work out a date-night schedule, so we didn't cramp each other's style—”

“No, no second thoughts.” Lacy placed the roll of tape on the end table and stood slowly. “I'm sure I'm making the right decision. It's way overdue.”

She was pleased at how confident she sounded. She only hoped that eventually she could actually
be
that certain.

She had decided two days ago, right after the episode with Adam, that she was going to move to Boston. She had hidden away on this little fantasy island long enough.

Nothing tied her to Pringle Island anymore, not now that Malcolm was dead. Not now that Adam was—

She shied away from that thought. It wouldn't help to think about Adam right now. She had to keep her thoughts aimed forward.

She would miss Tilly, of course. And even, strangely, Gwen. But Boston was only a ferry ride away, and they could keep a constant flow of visits both ways quite easily.

She would leave the house, and all the money, to Gwen.

She had found a new job easily. Her fund-raising efforts for the hospital had been so successful that, about a year ago, a friend in Boston had tried to hire
her to do community relations for the public television station there. She had, foolishly, turned him down—just as she'd turned down every other job offer through the years.

She had never admitted it to herself, but she knew now why she had always said no. She had wanted to be here, right where he had left her, in case Adam ever decided to come home. She had been as pitiful as the captain's wives who had once paced the widow's walks on top of these old Pringle Island houses, watching for their husbands to return from sea.

But no longer. She wasn't going to cower here for another decade, nursing her broken heart, feeding it bits and pieces of memories. The stables, where she and Adam had first made love. The ferry landing, where she had wept and clung, and begged him not to leave. The chapel where she had married Malcolm, her heart full of tears. The hospital where she had lost the baby, her soul cauterized and disbelieving.

And, of course, the Tunnel of Love, where she had dreamed her most beautiful dream one last time.

That was what Pringle Island was to her—a mausoleum of memory. If she stayed, she would always live with ghosts.

So she wouldn't stay. She had called her friend in Boston, and the job was still open. She had taken it on the spot.

Was she scared? Yes. Was she excited? Not yet. But the excitement would come, in a little while, when the wound Adam had inflicted wasn't so fresh. When it didn't hurt quite so much.

“Lacy, I've been thinking.” Gwen was swinging her feet from the desk, admiring her chartreuse sandals, which she had paired with a sexy green sundress. She was almost herself again, Lacy thought—although she noticed a hint of maturity in Gwen's expression that seemed new. It suited her.

“You're going to knock over one of those bottled ships if you're not careful,” Lacy said.

Gwen scowled. Mature or not, she still hated to be bossed around, apparently. So Lacy held up her hands placatingly. “Okay, okay. They're your ships. Break them all if you like. So, tell me. What have you been thinking?”

Gwen looked hesitant. “Just…are you sure you don't want me to talk to him? I mean, I really caused this whole thing, and I could explain that I—”

“No.” Lacy propped the picture carefully against the doorway, ready to be picked up later in the day. “I meant what I said, Gwen. I don't want you to talk to Adam about this. What happened between us isn't your fault. It's a flaw, a fatal flaw, in our relationship. It's over. Period. I'm ready to move on.”

“Yeah?” Gwen tossed her curls behind her shoulder. “Well, you don't sleep. I hear you tossing in there all night.”

Lacy sighed. “I will,” she said. “It's just going to take some time. Besides, I'd rather do without a little sleep than go beg a man to forgive me for something I never did. Wouldn't you? And he's probably back in New York by now anyhow.”

“He's not.” Gwen smiled hopefully. “Travis told me he doesn't leave until Friday. So…”

“No.” Lacy gave Gwen her most repressive glare.
“N. O.”

Gwen subsided briefly, obviously trying to think of a good argument. But just then the telephone rang shrilly. Gwen jumped for it, knocking over one of the ships, just as Lacy had predicted.

Lacy lunged to try to catch the bottle, but she wasn't fast enough. The ship crashed to the floor, and pieces of glass flew everywhere.

“Oh, my God,” Gwen said, horrified, staring at the mess. She looked toward the doorway, as if she half-expected her father to come bursting in, vibrating with fury. He would have eviscerated her over this. “Oh, my God.”

But Malcolm was gone. No one would berate her for her clumsiness.

Murmuring reassuring noises, Lacy bent down to check the broken bits. Amazingly, though the glass had completely shattered, the ship was fine. Lacy picked it up gently, realizing that this was the first time she'd been able to appreciate just how delicate and beautiful its artistry really was.

For the first time, it was free.

There was a message in that, she thought, touching the tiny, intricate masts and the perfect, wind-swollen sails. The bottle hadn't been protecting the ship. It had merely been confining it.

But, all amateur philosophizing aside, the telephone was still ringing. Lacy reached across Gwen, who was bending down, hurrying to scoop up the broken shards of glass as if she still feared she'd be caught.

“Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Morgan?”

Lacy recognized the refined, well-modulated voice immediately. It was Claire Scott Tyndale. Lacy could even hear the spaniel, Winston, yipping in the background.

“Yes.” She set the ship down carefully on the mantel, where it pointed its prow bravely forward. “Hello, Claire. I'm very glad you called.”

A pause crackled over the telephone lines. “I almost didn't,” Claire said finally, her manner as straightforward as ever. As much like Tilly as ever. “I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure. But I've thought over what you said. And if you still think it's a good idea, I'd like very much to meet Mrs. Barnhardt.”

Did she think it was a good idea? It was the best. Her mind raced ahead, thinking of Tilly's joy.

“Ms. Morgan? Do you think Mrs. Barnhardt would still like to meet me?”

“Tilly,” Lacy corrected encouragingly, a real bubble of happiness rising in her for the first time in two days. “No one calls her Mrs. Barnhardt, Claire. Especially not her own granddaughter.”

 

L
ACY WASN'T AT THE
hospital. Kara Karlin told Adam that he had just missed her. She had taken some letters to the printer, and then she had planned to pick up some dinner and take it to Tilly's house.

But Tilly said she had come already, and then left again. Tilly obviously knew that things had gone badly wrong between him and Lacy. Her manner was frosty and politely furious. It had taken all his humble
coaxing to make her tell him that Lacy had been headed to the printer.

It took another five minutes of assuring Tilly that he meant Lacy no harm, but finally she thawed. The printer, she said, was on Main Street. Lacy often picked up a summer salad at the deli next door, unless if was after nine, in which case it would be closed, and then she might try the Chinese take-out place, which was—

Adam looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. He thanked Tilly, kissing her cheek quickly and then hurrying out to his rental car, which he'd left running in the drive. If he took the back roads, maybe he could catch her.

Main Street at dusk had a gilded old-world charm, with the lights just appearing in shop windows. The quaint streetlamps were still pale flames against the deep blue sky, and the sinking sun painted the cobblestone street in shining gold leaf.

This late on a weekday evening, many of the stores were already closed. Only a few people still ambled along the sidewalks, mostly stragglers, or joggers or window-shoppers on their way to a late dinner at the Lost Horizon.

Was she one of them? He pressed the brake, slowing to check every passerby. Old ladies on the iron benches, eating ice cream. Two teenagers, kissing feverishly in a shadowed alcove. A father rolling two babies in a stroller. Three middle-aged woman, suntanned and laughing loudly, obviously walking home in a pleasant post-margarita high.

But where was Lacy? Could Tilly have been wrong? What if Lacy was on the other side of the
island—or back at home, refusing to answer the telephone? Frustration made him thump the wheel. Surely Tilly wouldn't have deliberately misled him, as punishment. Surely she could tell that he meant only to—

And then suddenly, there she was.

She stood alone, in front of Island Travel, looking at posters of downhill skiers and big red cruises. She wore a loose-fitting summer dress of the purest blue. Her hair was unbound, falling to the tips of her shoulder blades. Even from the back, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

For a moment he could only idle there in the middle of the street, frozen in place by the sight of her. His mind raced, wondering how he would manage to say the things he needed so desperately to say. Wondering if she'd even be willing to listen.

Someone honked, annoyed to find him blocking the way. Lacy turned at the sound, and she saw him. He quickly slid the car into the nearest empty parking space, afraid that she might run from him.

But she didn't. Though it took him an endless two minutes to park and walk back, she was still standing in front of the travel agency, her plastic container of summer salad clutched in both hands. He had thought of a dozen persuasive beginnings. But when he looked into her wide blue-gray eyes, with their deep shadows of unhappiness circling them, he couldn't remember a single one.

“Hi,” he said. He looked awkwardly at the travel posters. “Thinking of going somewhere?”

She gave him an empty gaze. “Yes,” she said. “Actually, I am. I'm leaving in just a few days.”

He felt a cold spasm in his gut, thinking of how it would have felt if Tilly had told him that.
She's gone,
Tilly could have said.
She left yesterday, and no one knows where she is.
He imagined the frustrated panic, the sense that he'd tear the entire globe to little pieces if that's what it took to find her.

Was that how she'd felt when he left ten years ago?

“Where are you going?”

She just looked at him.
It's none of your business,
the silence said, though she didn't speak the words.

“Lacy.” He couldn't let this happen. What were the magic words that would stop it? “Lacy, I came to find you because I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For all the stupid, cruel things I said.” He shook his head, as if he could shake the past away. “I'm so sorry, Lacy. Can you ever forgive me?”

“There's nothing to forgive,” she said coolly.

“Yes, there is.” He was horrified to realize that, except for the dark shadows around her eyes, she looked exactly like the ice maiden he had met at Tilly Barnhardt's fund-raiser a month ago.

Oh, God. Had she retreated into that frozen shell once more? She would have built the fortress thicker this time, and she would be prepared for any attack he might have planned.

“Yes, there is,” he repeated. “I was—I was a bastard. Everything you said was true. I was judgmental and sanctimonious. I should have trusted you.”

“Nonsense.” She shifted her box to a more comfortable position. “We slept together, Adam, that's
all. It doesn't place you under any obligation to
trust
me.”

“No.” He held her eyes with his. “But being in love with you does.”

She made a low, cynical noise, and he saw her move as if to turn away. Desperately, he reached out and grabbed her hand.

“It's true. Please listen to me, Lacy.”

She didn't pull away, but she didn't relax, either. They stood, delicately balanced between the two forces—a momentary armed truce.

But it was something. It was time, which he needed desperately to plead his case.

“You have to believe me,” he said, though he knew that was a lie. She didn't have to. She might well choose to jerk her arm away and disappear forever. “I love you, Lacy. I have always loved you. I will never forgive myself for abandoning you. Whatever hell you went through, you endured it alone. And that was my fault.
All
my fault.”