Never Again Good-Bye (20 page)

I
t was after midnight when the warmth surrounding Laney was removed and she woke to a cold, empty bed. Slowly, she rose and slipped into her robe. A movement outside near the pool caught her eye, and she went to the glass doors in her bedroom and looked out.

She saw Wes’s silhouette on the end of a chaise lounge. He was staring into the pool, elbows propped on his knees. His shoulders were slumped dejectedly, and a deep sigh made his back rise and fall.

Was he thinking about Patrice again?

As despair filled her heart, she recalled the comfort and the peace she had felt with him the night they had prayed together and renewed their vows and sought that peace and comfort again. “Help him to let go of Patrice, Lord,” she whispered. “Help me to help him.” Tears ran over her cheeks, and she pressed her forehead against the cool glass. “I love him.”

She saw him stir, as if he was getting ready to come back in, and she crawled back into bed. How much time would it take to pull him through that elusive door between past and future? Or would it ever happen? Would she wake one day to find that the love he’d shown her had only been illusion, his illusion that she was someone else?

Wes had said he would never do that, but what kind of choices did people really have in matters of their hearts? She heard the door slide open, felt him crawling in beside her, heard him expel a weary breath as he settled next to her.

And then, as if it was the most natural gesture in the world, he curled around the bend of her body and set his arm over her waist. In a moment she felt him drift off to sleep, holding her as if he loved her, embracing her as if there was no one between them.

A
month of loving nights crept by, a month of insecure days. Wes still didn’t put his house on the market, and Laney saw his thoughts drifting off into the distance when he thought she didn’t see. She still felt Patrice’s ghost keeping their scarred souls from joining.

But Amy was happy. She was learning to sew and to dive and was developing a tan that bespoke her heritage. When she fell off her bike she went to Laney. When she fought with her friends she went to Laney. When she needed to talk about Patrice she went to Laney.

Laney kept her mind off of her worries about Wes by staying busy. Determined to make this house their home rather than her father’s, she set about cleaning out an accumulation of thirty years. She sat on the floor in the study one July afternoon, sifting through the stacks of papers and notebooks her father had stacked in a closet.

“Laney, the thread ran out.”

Amy stood in the doorway, the picture of American youth in her braids and bare feet, her bathing suit covered by only a pair of shorts. In her hands was the shirt that Laney had labored over for Wes’s birthday, her first attempt at men’s clothes since she had bought her sewing machine. Sherry had helped her with some of the basics in the beginning, then taught her a few tricks to make the job easier. Amy’s job was to do all the basting and hem the shirt, and Laney had even allowed her to use the machine for a few practice pieces under close supervision.

“Bring me the spool,” Laney said, not getting up. She broke the thread and directed it through the needle. “You’re doing a good job. Your dad will think we bought this.”

“He’s gonna be surprised,” Amy said. “Maybe he’ll wear it when we take him out that night.”

“Of course he will.” A soft smile of anticipation stole across her lips. Hopefully, Wes would be proud enough of the shirt that he wouldn’t notice the wobbly stitches or the flaws in the construction. It was, after all, the thought that counted. Besides, the sleeves were exactly the same length. It had taken her three tries, but she was certain they were perfect now.

Amy curled her tongue over her lips and jabbed the needle back in the hem.

“Take it back in there, honey,” Laney ordered. “The light’s too dim in here.”

Without looking up, Amy wandered back into the den.

Laney dusted off the manuscript box in her hand and opened it. Her father had been notorious for never throwing anything away. Every draft of every manuscript he’d ever written, from notes about ideas to the final draft, was kept in that closet. She recalled the reporters who had gathered in the house when he had won awards for his work, taking pictures of drafts of manuscripts stacked ceiling-high. And she remembered how he had taken more pleasure in that media attention than he had in his own daughter.

She lifted off the top page and glanced at the second. It was a letter of some sort, scrawled in ink and yellow with age. She sifted through the pages for the first page and found that it had been written to her mother.

A frown marred her forehead, and she dug through the stack and found that the box was full of letters to her mother. Several were written before their marriage. Some were written during it. And one … one was written after her mother’s death.

Laney rose from the floor and went to the rocking chair beside the window, where the light was better. The early letters were written by a young man in love with an Indian girl. He wrote about the disdain of her people and his, about the burning passion that he declared would not be snuffed by bigotry and discrimination.

Laney found the letters her mother wrote in answer, that she would forsake the wishes of the people on her reservation and run away with him if it was the only way they could be together. She read of her mother’s love for her parents, of her wish to someday return to the Caddo reservation in Arkansas and make things better for them, but that, for now, she had to follow her heart and be with the man she loved. It would mean, perhaps, that her parents would turn their backs on her for good, but for him it was worth it.

Her father told her that he, too, would be looked down on for crossing racial barriers. But he declared, in the rich, lyrical style that had made him famous, that he would rather live as an outcast with her for the rest of his life than be accepted in a world without her for a single day.

Laney swallowed the emotion swelling in her throat. Had he really loved? Had he really been able? She read on through the years of their marriage, through the changes that took place in his fame and his success. She read of their joy over the birth of a daughter, letters written in his absence when he was away researching his masterpiece. And through it all, their love was sustained.

And then …

Laney barely remembered her mother’s death. But what weighed heavily in her mind was her father’s anger, his coldness, his bitterness after that. She came to the last letter. It was dated five years after her mother’s death, when Laney was fourteen.

Laney wept as she read the laments of a man who had never been able to say good-bye to his wife, a man who blamed himself for not being able to die in her place, a man who wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of love again for as long as he lived. She read of his despair over seeing his wife each time he looked at his daughter, of his inability to ever reach out again.

She set the letters down and let her eyes roam over the hundreds of books lining the walls of his study. One shelf was devoted to his own writings. She recalled the critics’ acclaim about his work after her mother’s death. They had praised the “tragic voice,” the “mood of one crying out in agony,” the “passion unfulfilled.” He was growing wiser with age, they had said.

But now Laney knew he was only growing lonelier.

She returned the letters to their box and put it back in the closet.

What did it all mean? That he would have loved her if he’d been able? That there was a reason for his coldness, and it had nothing to do with her own failure as his child? That he had never been able to forget the woman he had loved and lost?

She sat on the desk and closed her eyes, dropping her forehead into her palm. She had spent a lifetime competing, against her will, with the ghost of one woman. Now she found herself competing with another. Was it her destiny to love and want to please men who clung to memories with more fervor than they clung to her?

“What’s the matter, Laney?” Amy stood in the doorway, her innocent face full of concern at Laney’s expression.

Laney opened her arms. “Come here,” she whispered. Amy didn’t hesitate, and her tight hug made things infinitely better.

“I was just looking through my dad’s things,” she explained. “And understanding him a little.”

Amy looked up at her. “Then you aren’t mad at him anymore?”

Laney bit her lip and looked at the old cardboard box. “No, Amy. I’m not mad anymore. Just a little sad, that’s all.”

She held her daughter against her, accepting the love the child was offering and praying that she had the strength to see the blessings she had rather than the things that would forever be kept from her.

Chapter Sixteen

W
es drove home from work a week later with a smile on his face. It was his birthday, and Amy and Laney had been up to something for the past three weeks. He had no idea what it was. He was only aware of the mad dash to hide the evidence of whatever they were doing each time he came home early, and the conspiratorial giggles and secretive winks across the table whenever they pretended they didn’t know his birthday was coming. Even that morning they had avoided mentioning what day it was, but their discretion had been blatantly obvious.

He pulled his car into the long driveway and sighed. It felt good to be happy again, to look forward to going home to his family. His family, he thought. It
was
becoming a family in many, many ways. And he found himself thinking about Patrice less and less as his love for Laney grew.

He tapped the wallet in his back pocket and smiled at how good it had felt to write the enormous check folded there. It would free him—free them both—to love and move ahead without past superficial reasons hanging over them. It would take away any thoughts that their marriage had been a neat little bargain. If things were ever going to move from “yours” and “mine” to “ours,” he had to clear the debt he felt hanging over him like a cloud. It meant nothing to her, he thought. But it meant a great deal to him. From now on there would only be the present and the bright, beckoning future.

He slammed the door to warn them he was home, then slipped into the house through the garage. Dimness and quiet greeted him. “Anybody home?” he asked.

Suddenly his wife and daughter leapt out at him, a roomful of balloons at their backs, and shouted, “Surprise!”

The three-member birthday party was a delight, and Wes couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed as hard as he did when Laney and Amy performed a mimed Amy Grant number, complete with choreography. When it came time to open presents, he oohed and ahhed over every item, gauging their faces to see if he had reached the one that was so special to them. And when he finally got to the shirt that had been so lovingly stitched by both his women, he was moved to silence.

“Don’t you like it, Daddy?” Amy asked anxiously.

He seemed to struggle with a knot in his throat. “It’s beautiful. No one’s ever made me a shirt before.” He drew in a deep sigh and brought effervescent eyes up to Laney. “So this is what you two have been up to.”

Amy beamed, and Laney dipped her head, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

Amy pointed to one of the crooked seams. “I did this part on the machine, and I hand-stitched the hem and some of the embroidery.”

“Embroidery?”

Amy snatched the shirt from his hand and turned up the collar. “See? Right here. It says, ‘We love you.’”

Dark eyes collided with jade ones. A pink blush was climbing into Laney’s cheeks, and her smile was faint, uncertain.

“It’s the best present I’ve ever gotten,” he said directly to her.

Laney gazed at him for a long moment, a tiny fissure of doubt drawing her brows together.

“And we’re taking you out to eat, so go put it on,” Amy ordered.

Wes wrenched his eyes from Laney and hopped to attention. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be the best-dressed man there. Just give me ten minutes.”

He grabbed Laney by the waist and drew her gently against him. “And how about helping me, Mrs. Grayson?”

Laney kissed his chin. He wasn’t withdrawing, as she’d dreaded after the declaration on his collar. Instead, he was kissing her temple, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.

Amy stayed behind as Laney followed him. When she had closed the door, he pulled her into his arms again. “You’re special, you know that?” The gravelly emotion in his voice spread through her heart.

She set her fingertips over his lips. “So are you.”

He moved her fingers and his lips touched hers, and she felt her heart mixing with his, all the pain and ache mingling with the joy and flutter of love. The kiss was different than their past kisses. It was more at home with her, more content in her touch, more secure in the permanency of her warmth.

He pulled back and let her go. “Did you and Amy really make this?” he asked, sliding his arms into the sleeves.

She fought the pride in her smile. “Yes. It isn’t perfect, but—”

“Isn’t perfect?” he cut in. “How can you say that? It’s better than perfect! I didn’t even know you could sew, much less that you were teaching Amy.”

Her laughter rolled out easily. “Sherry taught me. Then when I got stumped, Amy and I put our heads together, and between us we figured out what we were doing.”

He buttoned the shirt and stepped to the mirror to assess the fit. “That’s why this family is working,” he said softly. “When we get stumped we put our heads together and figure out what we’re doing.”

Laney stepped up behind him, carefully watching his reflection. “
Is
it working?” she asked hesitantly.

He turned around and framed her face, pressing his forehead against hers. “Of course it’s working,” he said. “And don’t you forget it.” They came together, and his kiss was shattering, straining the boundaries of sweet gentleness. After a moment, he pulled back. “Amy’s waiting,” he whispered on a note of regret.

“Yes,” she whispered. He began tucking in his shirt. The wallet on his hip reminded him of the check, and he slipped it out. “I almost forgot,” he said before she stepped away. “I have something for you too.”

Laney’s eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. “You got me something for your birthday?”

“Sort of,” he said. His eyes sparkled with pride. “It’s something that’s been hanging over my head since we got married. Something that I’ve just now been able to settle.”

“What?”

He looked down at his wallet then back at her. “I got the first payment today on the amusement park contract. It was enough to pay back the money you gave me.”

She caught her breath and her expression fell as he pulled the check out of his billfold. He handed it to her, and she stepped back as if he was handing her a cup of poison.

“Wes, I really, really didn’t expect to be paid back. Keep that money. Invest it in your business.”

“Laney, one of the reasons I agreed to marry you was because of this money. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“How?” she asked.

“Cheap,” he said. “I want to make my own way, and I don’t need your money to do it.”

Laney’s mouth trembled. “I make you feel cheap?”

“No!” he said. “I didn’t mean that.”

She caught her breath and forced herself to stay calm. “All right, I should have seen that. I even deserve it.”

“Laney …” He reached out to touch her, but she recoiled, gripping her arms around her waist as if it was the only embrace in her destiny.

“Give me the check if it makes you feel better,” she said. “I never meant to make you feel like I owned you. I thought we had built something here.”

“Laney, we have. You don’t understand. You’re misinterp—”

“No, Wes, I do understand. And really … it’s fine. If you want to pay me back …” But her tears belied her words as her voice trailed off.

Confused, Wes handed her the check. “Laney, I didn’t do this to hurt you. I only wanted to be able to go on with our marriage without—”

“I know,” she interrupted, smearing her tears across her face. “Please hurry and get ready,” she choked on her way to the door. “Amy’s waiting for us.”

The rest of Wes’s birthday was a lesson in civility, an exercise in spurious enjoyment despite the disappointment and hurt swirling just beneath the surface. Laney’s only comments were directed at Amy, and her eyes held a fragile, shattered quality that he felt was unwarranted. What did she think? That by paying her back he was cutting himself off from her? Did she think all the love and tenderness and passion they had shared had been an act? Did she really think he was only doing what he’d been hired to do?

It made him furious when she avoided meeting his eyes as he helped her and Amy back into the car after dinner. It was as if she had just been waiting for some reason to doubt him, he thought, some reason to prove that life would continue to cheat her of what she held dear.

He drove home, maintaining a light conversation with his daughter, noting the way Laney gazed out the window as if everything she believed in had been snatched out from under her. Couldn’t she see that he loved her, that he didn’t want money to be any part of their reason for being together, that he needed to support her and care for her on his own? Didn’t she see how good it made him feel to be able to give that money back?

She went to bed when Amy did, leaving him to hash the facts out in his mind. Where had he gone wrong? he asked himself. Had it been a mistake to love again, in spite of the prospect of someday losing that love? Had it been a mistake to reach out, knowing that reaching out could mean realizing how empty his life could be? Had it been a mistake to rejoice at what he’d believed was her love for him, when rejoicing quite possibly meant the deepest sadness a man could know?

The night grew older and he grew wiser as the pain in her eyes etched itself on his heart. None of those had been a mistake. But the check … the check had been his undoing.

He closed his eyes as he realized that, in her mind, paying her back had reduced their love to mere services rendered. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t he expected it? He pinched the bridge of his nose. She thought she was his albatross. She thought his feelings for her were borrowed, grudging, duty-bound, the way her father’s had been.

He was bone tired by the time he went to the bedroom and found her lost in a deep slumber like a child whose only refuge was sleep. He’d been such a fool, he thought. He’d fostered her fears, nurtured her insecurities. Making her sleep for weeks under the portrait of Patrice, clinging to the house like a kid would cling to a tattered blanket, holding on to yesterday when all he wanted to do was let go.

A deeper love than he had ever known for a woman filled him, and he crawled into bed next to her and slid his arms around her. She had been sleeping more and more lately, lying in bed longer than she should each morning, retiring earlier. Was it because she had been depressed? Had he been so thankful of his own happiness that he had overlooked hers?

He dropped a kiss on her temple and pulled her tighter against him. “I love you, Laney,” he whispered, though she did not hear. “And tomorrow I’ll prove it to you.”

It was time to move forward, he told himself finally. It was time to say good-bye to Patrice, sell the house, and put his past where it belonged—in his heart and mind for the times when he needed it, but not in some tangible structure that had so little bearing on the present. His life with Laney was more than any man could want. And he had new castles to build with her.

L
aney felt as if she’d been turned upside down and shaken when she woke the next morning. She had never had a hangover, but she had a strong suspicion that she might prefer it to the dizzy, nauseous, weak feeling gripping her. Wes was beside her, fully awake, watching the way she clutched her head and lay back down after starting to get out of bed. “I think I’m sick,” she whispered.

He propped himself on an elbow and laid his hand on her forehead. “No fever,” he said, his brows knitted. “Maybe it’s a virus.”

She closed her eyes and tried to lie still until her dizziness subsided. “Wes, I’m sorry. I was awful last night.”

“It’s OK,” he said. “I understand why you thought what you did. But Laney, our marriage is still a marriage, now more than ever. I don’t want that money to come between us somewhere down the road. By giving it back to you, I can feel free of that artificial bond we had in the beginning. And we can concentrate on the really important things.”

“It’s just that … it’s just that we’re on such shaky ground. I have trouble knowing what’s really mine.”

“
I’m
yours,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

She reached up to slide her arms around his neck, but queasiness assaulted her again and she dropped her head back down. Her skin was pallid and clammy, and her hands trembled.

As if he’d seen enough, Wes rolled over to the telephone, his motions abrupt and determined.

“Who are you calling?”

“The doctor,” he said. “You’re sick.”

“But I don’t have a doctor.”

“Then it’s time you got one,” he said as he riffled through the phone book they kept in the nightstand drawer. “I’ll call mine. He’s the nicest man you’d ever want to meet, and he’s become a good friend over the years.”

“I’ll be all right.” She sat up and waited for her balance. “I think I’m feeling better already.”

Wes ignored her. Within seconds he was making her an appointment for that morning. When he hung up, Laney forced herself to stand. “Wes, I really don’t have to go to the doctor. See? I’m fine.”

Wes got out of bed and pulled on his robe. “Laney, you’ve been unusually tired lately. There’s obviously something wrong this morning. I don’t believe in taking chances.”

Of course he didn’t, she thought with a sweet surge of warmth that made her feel even more ashamed of her actions last night. He’d seen firsthand what illness could do, and she’d do anything to lay his fears to rest. “OK, I’ll go if it’ll make you feel better.”