Summer Shadows (27 page)

“Not now, thank you. I plan for us to go to the store tonight to stock up big-time. You have hardly anything here.”

Abby bit her lip. She felt like she was five and Mom had just
said, “Leave your dolls, dear. We have to go to the grocery store.” In a voice as calm as she could make it, Abby said, “I can’t go to the store tonight, Mom. I have a project planned.”

There was a short silence. “You never told me.”

You never told me either
. “Sorry.”

“Well, just get home before dinner’s ruined.”

Abby hung up, picturing Mom’s compressed lips and stony expression. The only thing that Mom hated more than having her plans messed up was having her carefully cooked meals ruined.

Maybe she’ll be mad enough for the silent treatment!
Hope bubbled. Just as quickly, remorse kicked in.
Oh, Lord, how awful of me. Help me. I’m going nuts here
.

When Abby pulled into the drive, there was barely enough room for her, given the presence of a stretch limo with U.S. government plates.

Marsh’s father! How had she forgotten?

Oh, Marsh, how’s it going? Are you surviving?

She climbed out of the car, reaching into the backseat to gather her purchases. With the wall shelving unit tucked under one arm, the paint can and bag with the brushes and solvent in the other, she walked to the steps. She could hear voices coming from Marsh’s living room through the open sliding door.

She couldn’t help looking over. She’d never seen a real live senator before, and she’d love a little glimpse of Senator Winslow. No luck. The black screen in the door effectively blocked even the most cursory glimpse.

She turned to the steps and realized that she wouldn’t be able to carry everything up in one trip. She still needed the banister for stability, though she felt she was getting better at this climbing bit every day. By Labor Day she should be running up, hands waving over her head in victory à la Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

She bent to put the paint and bag on the ground when a hand reached out, taking them from her.

“Let me.”

She jumped. “Marsh!” She smiled. “Where did you come from so quickly?”

He took her elbow in the now familiar grip. “I saw you through the open door. You’re my chance to escape for a minute.”
The first sentence was spoken at a normal level, but the second was
sotto voce
.

She glanced at the door herself. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

She studied him. His shoulders were tense, his eyes desperate. “It’s only for a day,” she offered as comfort.

“Yeah, but he brought his wife with him.”

“Your stepmom? I take it you don’t like her?”

He rolled his eyes. “She makes your mom look like Mother Teresa.”

Abby grinned. “Well, come on up and say hi to the sainted woman.”

“That’ll make her evening.” His voice was dry.

“I could use the protection, and you could make believe you’re Sir Galahad.”

He looked a question and she confided, “I’m late.” He was appropriately scandalized.

“Marshall,” a voice purred from behind them. “Who do we have here?”

“Uh-oh,” Marsh breathed. He turned, a false smile plastered on his face. “This is Abby Patterson. She lives upstairs.”

Abby turned and found herself staring at a beautiful young woman standing at the edge of Marsh’s porch. Her hair, a sleek, sophisticated pageboy of a lovely ash-blond shade, was perfect even after a day in the high humidity of the Jersey shore. Abby looked in vain for a freckle, a mole, a sunburned nose, anything to mar the perfection of her face. She looked like she had just slipped into her blue silk shirt and white linen slacks.

How has she worn linen all day and not gotten wrinkled, Abby wondered, feeling every one of the wrinkles she knew creased her poplin slacks. Then there was the spot of baby vomit on her shoulder from when she’d held an infant so its young mom could help the three-year-old brother pick out some books. As for makeup, perfect or otherwise, Abby knew hers had long ago worn off, and her red nose undoubtedly shone like a beacon on a dark night.

“Abby,” Marsh continued. “This is Lane Winslow, my father’s wife.”

“Hello, Lane, it’s nice to meet you.” Because her first response
to Lane had been so catty, Abby put extra graciousness into her greeting. Then her brain clicked.

Lane? As in Marsh’s ex-fiancée? Had she heard correctly? Certainly there weren’t many women with that name, and to have two connected to the same family seemed too much. But married to his father? Only by supreme effort did she keep her jaw from dropping all the way to her knees.

“Lane? Marshall? Where are you?” A commanding voice boomed from the living room.

“Out here, darling,” Lane purred over her shoulder. “Meeting Marshall’s neighbor.”

How did she do it, Abby wondered, putting such an ugly, suggestive spin on her ordinary comment? Marsh stiffened beside her, the hand he still had on her elbow tightening painfully. She poked him discreetly in the ribs, and while he loosened his hold, he didn’t let go.

The sliding door flew open and out stepped Senator Winslow. He looked just like all the pictures Abby had seen of him: confident, charismatic, and handsome. He carried his authority with ease and his age with distinction. He joined them, sliding an arm around his wife. Lane glanced at him over her shoulder, giving him a lovely smile.

What was it like for the senator to know that his wife had first chosen his son and he was second choice?

What was it like for Lane to be married to a man nearly twice her age? Of course power was a strong aphrodisiac, and the senator possessed that attribute in spades.

Marsh introduced Abby. “I’m just going to help her upstairs with her packages.”

“How sweet,” Lane purred.

Marsh started up the steps, paint can and bag in hand, towing Abby behind him. She flashed a brief smile over her shoulder at the senator, then at Lane.

“Nice to meet you,” she called as, shelves held awkwardly under her free arm, she grasped the banister. Feeling Lane’s eyes on her, it was all she could do not to twitch her shoulders. She gritted her teeth and tried not to let her limp show. Not that Marsh was any help in that department. He practically dragged her up the stairs, accenting rather than disguising her disability.

“Oh, Marsh,” she whispered as they neared the landing and she thought it safe to speak without being overheard. “Lane?
The
Lane?”

He nodded, lips compressed.

“Your poor father!”

Marsh halted, one foot on the top step, one foot on the landing, a look of utter disbelief on his face. “Poor Dad?”

Abby nodded. “And lucky you!”

He looked at her, shaking his head. Then he grinned. “You never cease to amaze me. You’re right, of course. Poor Dad.” He set the paint and bag on the nearest chair. “I’ve got to go.”

Abby nodded. She wished she could ask him to stay for a few minutes to look at the nasty letter. She’d love his opinion, but she knew now wasn’t the time. Besides, Mom would undoubtedly walk out as she showed it, demanding to see it too.

She balanced the shelves on the edge of the porch rail. “Just remember,” she said softly. “Lucky you.”

He was grinning as he loped down the stairs, and she felt pleased to have relieved a bit of his tension even if only for a minute or two.

She had just turned to go inside when Lane spoke.

“How kind of you to help the cripple, Marshall. But aren’t you slumming a bit?”

A
BBY FELL BACK
as if she’d been slapped, coming to rest when she bumped into the apartment wall. Mortification washed over her, burning her cheeks, chilling her spirit. Never in the three years since the accident had anyone called her a cripple.

Oh, she’d seen plenty of looks of pity, especially when she was first learning to walk again. She’d been asked plenty of questions from the politely curious to the downright nosey. But cripple, especially used in so pejorative a manner? Never.

And slumming! How thoroughly demeaning.

She heard Senator Winslow’s horrified, “Lane!” and Marsh’s low, fierce, “Shut up, Lane.”

Then she heard Lane’s merry, if slightly strained laugh. “Easy, gentlemen. Can’t you take a joke?”

Some joke.

Honesty forced Abby to admit that much of the hurt came because Lane was the source. Beautiful Lane. Elegant Lane. She was probably the toast of Washington, the glamorous, savvy young wife of a powerful political force. Invitations to her parties were doubtless A-list treasures in the status-conscious city. No one wrote notes about her being a bad influence on children.

Hardest to think about was that Marsh had loved her.

Pushing away from the wall and walking to the rail to look out at the vast, calming sea, Abby admitted that last thought was the one that bothered her most. Marsh had loved Lane.

With a sigh she acknowledged that she’d never stand a chance with him. After beauty like that, why would he settle for someone like her? After the sleekness of blond Lane, how could he like her unruly mass of black curls that went every which way in the humid shore air no matter how much extra-extra-extra ultrahold hair spray she used? How could he be attracted to her skinny face with its sun-reddened nose and dark, strong brows after Lane’s movie star perfection. She glanced down at herself and shuddered. Body shape didn’t even bear thinking of.

“Well, you’re here. Finally.”

Mom. Abby scrunched her face at the acerbic tone, pasting on a smile as she turned. “Hello, Mom.”

“You should have told me you were home.”

“I just got here.” Abby tried to keep her voice devoid of emotion, but she wasn’t certain she succeeded.

“Yes, well, come on. Dinner gets more rubbery by the moment.”

The meal was an exercise in exquisite torture for Abby and, she suspected, her mother. Conversation was awkward and sporadic with Mom giving rundowns on people from home as if Abby had been away for a year instead of less than a week. Finally Mom asked the question Abby had been dreading.

“What’s wrong, Abby? Tell me what’s wrong.” She leaned back in her chair, planning to settle in until she had her answer.

In the past, Abby would have poured out her heart, sharing what bothered her with relief. Even when she was married, she and her mother had talked about her problems, analyzing them, dissecting them, finding solutions for them. Always she had been proud of the relationship she had with Mom, the openness.

A sudden thought hit Abby. Had they ever talked about any of Mom’s problems, looked for alternatives for her, wondered about what were her best steps to take, her wisest course to follow? Not that she expected Mom to tell her about problems with Dad, though she herself had blurted out enough about Sam. But what about work? Church? Neighbors?

With a grim smile, Abby realized Mom had never once asked
for her input, her advice. Mom willingly gave, but she didn’t take, not even after Abby was a woman grown.

Therein lay the problem. Abby was a woman, yet Mom still expected their relationship to be like it was when she was growing up. When they conversed, they weren’t two women friends, peers. They had never made that adjustment. They were still mother and daughter, authority and wisdom facing need and ignorance.

In a strange way, the accident was responsible for bringing all that inequity to a head. For a time Mom had been needed, desperately needed. She had met that need with love and a willing spirit. She had given above and beyond what could be expected of her, and Abby had accepted the help without question out of both habit and necessity.

Now Abby was healed. She was no longer needy. In fact, she was no longer anything like the woman she’d been the day she had ridden into that intersection with Sam. How could she be, going through what she had? She had passed through the fire, been tempered, been matured. She’d pushed through far more than her physical therapy, emerging a woman who wanted—what? What did she want?

She’d thought she wanted independence, the freedom and space to stand alone. That was why she came to Seaside. After a lifetime of people telling her what to do, she wanted to be responsible to no one but God, to be on her own. Not that she wanted to be like Amalsuntha, who back in the 500s ruled the Roman Empire for years all by herself, ending up banished and strangled for all her fine work. A craving for power wasn’t in Abby’s makeup.

Nor, she was beginning to think, was autonomy. That way lay loneliness. But she didn’t want the cosseting her parents offered either. That way lay suffocation.

She thought of Lavinia Fontana, a talented Italian artist of the late sixteenth century. She found a husband who acknowledged her talent to be greater than his and who agreed to be the house husband while she conquered the artistic world of her day. Lavinia painted for the Spanish royal family as well as being appointed court painter to Pope Clement VIII.

Was that the kind of marriage partnership Abby wanted? Well, yes and no. She knew from her brief friendship with Marsh that
she found comfort and encouragement in having someone to talk to, someone who respected and accepted her as she was, a gift Lavinia’s husband appeared to have given her. However, she had no ambitions to take the world by storm, so the comparison to Lavinia broke down here. Children’s librarians weren’t the stuff of international fame.

Could she find a man who was willing to meet her on level ground? One who would let her be herself, even encourage her in that way? Could she find someone to accept her as his sweet Eve, created just for him, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, yet also that other Eve who ate the apple, who made less-than-sterling choices, and was sometimes cranky and demanding, greedy and foolish? Who could acknowledge and honor her as both personas? Such a man would be worth yielding her independence for.

When a vision of Marsh wiping away her tears with his T-shirt sprang to her mind, she pushed it away. Better to let this paragon of male maturity remain faceless. It was easier on a heart that had already been bruised so badly by life.