Demon Lover (33 page)

She tried hard not to think or feel, and to avoid it she kept busy with trivialities. She took her car in for an oil change, and then, as a special treat, had it washed. She went grocery shopping and organized all her cupboards, sorted clothes and took armloads to the Goodwill collection box. Took Madeline Younger’s clothes to the dry cleaners. She would have to send them back, of course.

Or take them—it would give her something to do. She made a phone call to Madeline to arrange it and hung up feeling there might, after all, be someone she could talk to.

The next day Julie filled her car with gas, made a stop at the cleaners, then drove to Ramona.

Madeline Younger greeted her with an impulsive hug while the dog, Jack, pushed his muzzle between them and nudged her leg with restrained impatience.

Madeline laughed, "Oh, go on, Jack," while Julie fondled his ears and was rewarded with a gaze of soulful adoration. "Chayne’s dog," his mother said, as if that explained something, and tucked an arm around Julie’s waist.

"Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you called. Here, dear, let me take those. You really shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of having them cleaned. Come in where it’s cool. I’ve got some iced tea, or there’s beer if you—"

"Tea sounds wonderful."

Inside the sprawling redwood and fieldstone ranch house it was cool and pleasant and smelled of lemons. It was shady and green now, instead of warm and golden, but to Julie it still had the feeling of home and welcome that had touched her so profoundly that night.

In the big sunny kitchen Madeline poured two tall glasses of tea, topped them with mint and lemon, and joined Julie at the table.

"Do you mind if we sit in here? Isn’t it funny? I always seem to visit in the kitchen. The living room is for… what? The television set, I guess, and for exercising. Oh, Julie." She frowned over the top of her glass. "I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve never forgiven myself for what you must have gone through that night. And I didn’t get your address, so I had no idea how to get in touch with you."

"It’s all right, really."

"I’ve thought of you so much. I’ve just been hoping Chayne would get in touch so I could ask about you."

"He hasn’t called you?"

"Oh, just briefly, to let me know he was all right. But he sounded so rushed and abrupt I didn’t have a chance to chat. Drat the man." But she was chuckling, not terribly put out. "I suppose he’s off again?"

"Yes," Julie murmured, sipping tea. "He’s gone to Washington."

"I see," Madeline said with calm acceptance. After a moment she went on. "I mistook you for a colleague of Chayne’s, you know. I thought you and he were involved together in one of his assignments."

"We were, in a way."

"Yes," Madeline said with a smile, "but obviously not the way I thought you were. Here I thought you knew…"

"And I couldn’t understand how you could be so cool and unconcerned about it." Julie was laughing and shaking her head. "I asked if you knew what he did for a living, meaning smuggling illegals—"

"Is
that
what he was doing?"

"Yes, and you said—"

"I said—oh, dear. We were talking right over each other’s heads, apparently."

The laughter died. The tears Julie brushed from her cheeks weren’t entirely tears of laughter.

"It was pretty awful," she said in shaky understatement, struggling against her natural reserve. "I thought he was really a smuggler. And a terrorist."

Madeline Younger waited without speaking. Julie saw Chayne in her—in her dusky, faintly exotic coloring, in her expressive mouth, and something about the carriage of the head. But Madeline’s eyes were a deep slate that just missed being black, and dark with understanding and compassion. They gave Julie the odd feeling this woman already knew what she wanted so badly to say.

And so she said it, stiffly and with pain. "And I loved him, Maddy. In spite of it."

"
Loved?"
Maddy said with a gentle arching of brows.

Julie laughed tremulously. "
Love.
I just meant—"

"I know, dear. I understand. And you can’t understand how you could have done such a thing."

"How could I?" Julie whispered wretchedly, as if she really hoped for an answer.

"Well," Madeline said with a smile, "of course, you’re probably asking the wrong person. I don’t find it at all hard to understand how you might love my son. But, dear…" She reached across the table to cover Julie’s hand briefly with her own. "Surely he must have done something to make you love him—in spite of being a smuggler."

"He saved my life," Julie said with a rueful laugh, and Madeline exclaimed, "Oh, well, that’s surely a good start."

They laughed together while Julie’s mind went back… back to Baja, to that stuffy camper.
Remembering.
And before she had time to consider whether or not she should, she was telling Chayne’s mother everything.

* * *

"You never really had a chance to get to know each other, did you?" Madeline asked thoughtfully.

They were in the living room, curled up at opposite ends of the couch with their feet tucked under them, wrapped in bathrobes. Julie’s, as usual, was borrowed, it having been decided during dinner that she would have to spend the night. There was no way they were going to say all there was to say otherwise.

It was dark and foggy outside, serene and golden inside; Jack had begged to be admitted, been rousted from the couch, and now slept sprawled on his side against the base of it.

"No," Julie sighed, raking her fingers through her hair. "We couldn’t talk—that was the problem. He couldn’t tell me anything at all for fear of giving himself away, and to tell you the truth, when I felt myself falling, I didn’t want to know anything about him. I thought I could hold off the feelings, I guess. Or maybe I was just afraid. I knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere—whatever it was between us. That it could only bring pain. And I thought if I could keep from knowing him, it wouldn’t be as bad."

She looked at Madeline for confirmation that she understood, and the other woman nodded and whispered, "Yes, I see."

"But we did talk—once. It was almost as if we just couldn’t help it. It was painful," she added, looking away. "Funny, from nothing at all we went straight to each other’s most closely guarded secrets. Maybe it was a way of…I don’t know. Giving to each other. A gift."

"Yes."

"Chayne told me about Vietnam. About how he got his scars."

Madeline made a soft sound of amazement. "That’s something he’s never told
me."

"You said Vietnam changed him," Julie said. "What did you mean?"

"Vietnam changed everybody—the whole damn country!" Madeline rearranged herself and cupped her chin in her hand. "Oh, Julie, I don’t mean to be evasive; it’s just so hard to talk about. When you have a child—or any loved one, really— and you see this wonderful, warm, loving human being become bitter and cynical…someone else altogether…a stranger… it’s almost as bad as losing them. Every day you remember what they were, and you ache for what should have been.

"Chayne was such a caring person. Even when he was small. He was an only child, you know, until he was seven, but he wasn’t the stereotypical spoiled only child. Maybe it was all that traveling around in poverty–stricken countries, but he was always concerned about other people. Always wanting to take care of them. I remember once—" She stopped, shaking her head and smiling, and Julie caught the shine of moisture in her eyes. "He couldn’t have been more than four years old. I had picked up some kind of tropical bug and had to stay in bed for a few days. I remember being so worried that Chayne would have to fend for himself, feeling guilty. And he said, in this grown–up voice, looking at me with those eyes of his, "Don’t worry, Maddy; I’ll take care of you."

She stopped abruptly and wiped a hand across her face. "Oh, well," she said huskily, clearing her throat, "you get the idea. And after the girls were born he was just as happy as a clam, being big brother. They adored him—absolutely adored him. None of this meant he wasn’t a typical rough–and–tumble boy, giving me heart failure at every turn, of course. He always did have a knack for getting into—and out of—dangerous situations."

"That hasn’t changed."

"No, and he usually manages to come through all right."

"Not always," Julie murmured, thinking of Vietnam.

Madeline nodded and whispered, "No." Julie saw her throat move convulsively, and then the older woman tossed her head back and laughed. "No, not always. He got that scar on his chin trying to ride an unbroken horse—I think he was about twelve. The horse dumped him in the middle of a barbed–wire fence."

"I always thought—"

"You thought that one came from Vietnam too, didn’t you? No," Madeline sighed, "just the big ones."

"Tell me," Julie said softly. "Please."

Madeline threw her a quick smile of apology. "I’m sorry, I do seem to keep digressing."

"It’s all right, I have a lot to catch up on. Did—" Julie cleared her throat hesitantly, remembering something Chayne had said. "Did he play football? Have a girlfriend? A special one, I mean," she added hastily. Of course Chayne would have had girlfriends, probably more than he knew what to do with.

"Oh, yes." His mother made a rueful sound. "He was quite the big man on campus, as you might imagine, but you know, even that didn’t really spoil him. Well…maybe a little." She laughed. "I suppose it’s impossible for an adolescent male to be varsity quarterback, and have eyes that can light up Carnegie Hall, and not be a tad arrogant.

"But he had a girlfriend. A very nice girl, a neighbor of ours. She was—"

"She was a cheerleader, wasn’t she?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Just a guess," Julie murmured, conscious of a dull ache in the middle of her chest.

"Yes, she was a cheerleader, and he was the quarterback, and they were just the world’s cutest couple, and everybody assumed they would marry and live happily ever after."

"What happened?" Julie held her breath, marveling that something that was obviously very much in the past could still hurt her so.

"Vietnam," Madeline said simply. "Chayne went to Stanford and enrolled in premed. Kelly went to Berkeley. Then Chayne got this idea he should be doing something that mattered. He didn’t have to go to Vietnam; it was his choice. He was with the medical evacuation corps—"

"I know. He told me."

"Yes. Well, you know more than I do about what he went through over there. But I swear, coming home was worse, Julie. Maybe you don’t remember what it was like—you’re a little young. But he was almost an outcast for having been a part of it. No one wanted to have anything to do with a Vietnam vet. And Kelly— Kelly had gotten very heavily involved with the antiwar groups at Berkeley, and she just dumped him."

"Not for chewed–up veterans of dirty unpopular little wars."

Julie remembered the pain and bitterness in his eyes and felt the pressure of tears in her own.
Oh, Chayne.

"But whether it was that or something that happened over there or a combination of things, he was…different. Harder, cynical, bitter, cold. His eyes used to make me feel as if the sun were shining on me. After that it felt more like he was stabbing me with a knife. He wasn’t interested in medicine  anymore, didn’t really know what he was going to do before this government thing came along. He didn’t seem to care."

She was silent, lost in sad and wistful thoughts. At their feet, Jack stretched and groaned and went back to sleep.

"I’m sorry," Julie whispered, aching for Chayne, for his mother, for herself.

"But," Madeline said suddenly, straightening to smile at Julie, "he seems to care about
you."

"He said—" Julie gave a laugh that was very nearly a sob and put her hand to her throat. She looked away, unable to meet those eyes that were so full of compassion and hope. "He said I healed him. I didn’t know what he meant. Oh, Maddy…"

All of a sudden she was crying. Without a word Chayne’s mother slid across the couch to comfort her, wrapping her arms around her and rubbing her back as she would a child’s.

"Why are you crying, Julie?" she asked gently after a moment. "It sounds as though you may be the best thing that could possibly happen to my son. If he loves you—"

"He does. I know he does."

"Then what on earth is the matter? You love him. Is it this job of his?"

"Oh yes, partly. But, Maddy, I can’t accept the fact that I fell in love with a criminal. I can’t deal with it. Chayne can’t understand it. It hurts him that I feel this way, but I can’t help it. I keep thinking, what kind of person would fall in love with a criminal? What kind of person does that make me?"

"Oh, Julie, for goodness’ sake," Madeline said severely, taking her shoulders and giving them an exasperated shake. "I think you’re selling yourself awfully short."

Julie stared at her, blinking away tears.

"Here you are beating yourself to a pulp with guilt, when you ought to be crowing with self–congratulation."

"I don’t—"

"You saw what he really was inside, all evidence to the contrary. The trouble is, you didn’t trust your instincts."

"Instincts." A very small bubble of relief tickled up through her and erupted in a breathless little laugh. "That’s funny, you know. I’ve always thought I had good instincts."

"Well, you see? Your instincts told you who he was; you just weren’t listening. You responded to the basic good in him, to his kindness and decency, and that makes
you
a good, kind, decent, loving person. And I love you to pieces, and I can’t tell you how wonderful it is having you here, and how happy I am that my son found you!"

They were both laughing, both crying, hugging, patting and rocking, feeling a little silly, a little embarrassed and a lot relieved, two women finding mutual love, comfort and everlasting friendship.

"Oh," Julie sighed tremulously, sniffling a bit as she wiped at her cheeks. "Oh, Maddy, I’m so scared. What if he doesn’t come back?"

* * *

Julie lay awake watching horses, brought to life by the play of light and shadows, cavort across the walls.