Although she was surprised to hear Joe use that word, especially in reference to his own mother and sister, she had to agree. “That, too,” she said.
“You handled them wonderfully,” he said, stopping suddenly on the sidewalk as he turned to face her. His hands on her shoulders, he kissed her. “This was your big test,” he said.
“And I failed miserably.”
“With Mom and Mary Louise, maybe, but you’re a victor in my eyes.” Holding her hand high in the air, he walked her over to the steps of the nearest row house. With a flourish, he took off his jacket and set it on the top step, then motioned her to sit down on it.
Sarah glanced at the windows in the row house and took her seat, giggling like a young girl. “What are we doing? What if someone comes out of—”
“Sh.” Lowering himself to one knee, he kissed her hand. “Now that I know you can hold your own with mother and Mary Louise,” he said, “I feel confident asking you to marry me. Will you?” he asked. “Marry me?”
She was stunned, not that he would one day ask her this question, but that it would come now, after his mother and sister had made their disdain for her and her religion and her profession so very clear.
“You might lose them,” she said. “Your family.”
“I love them,” he said. “Despite the fact that they are…all those things you said they are. But it’s you I want to spend the rest of my life with, not them. So will you?” In the porch light of the row house, his eyes were bright and hopeful.
“Of course I will,” she said.
Her roommate was away for the weekend, and she and Joe had the apartment to themselves. Sarah made Joe a cup of tea, then disappeared into her bedroom. Her heart beating fast, she undressed and slipped into her robe. Then she called him in.
He stood in the doorway, clearly surprised at finding her in her robe. He said nothing, but leaned against the doorjamb, a smile on his face.
Untying the robe, she let it slip to the floor. The air in the apartment was cool against her skin, and she watched his eyes drift over her body as she walked toward him.
He didn’t touch her when she neared him. He seemed to be letting her take the lead, and that was what she wanted. She unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it from his shoulders. She unbuckled his belt, then lowered the zipper on his trousers, and she heard his sharp intake of breath as her hand accidentally brushed over the rigid mass beneath his shorts. Then it seemed he could stand it no longer. He tore off the rest of his clothes and began covering her face and throat and shoulders with kisses, at once tender and feverish. As he pulled her tightly against him, she felt the steely heat of his erection.
He drew down the covers on her bed and lowered her gently into it. Then he lay next to her, caressing her, loving her, and she thought there was nothing more she would ever need to make her world complete.
Joe’s mother and sister refused to come to the wedding, which was held in the small Methodist church Sarah had attended over the years. Joe didn’t complain about their absence. The joy he felt in Sarah’s company seemed to make up for whatever loss he might endure.
They went to Florida for their honeymoon, to the wilds of the Everglades, as close to the atmosphere of Africa they could afford. They left by plane immediately after the small reception. It was Sarah’s first time in a plane, and she clung to Joe’s hand nervously, feeling the solid strength in him. For the first time in her adult life, she had someone to lean on. That realization brought tears of joy to her eyes, and she stared out the window so Joe wouldn’t see them and misinterpret them.
The morning after their wedding night, Joe turned to her in bed.
“I have a wedding gift for you,” he said, touching her cheek. He rose from the bed, and she watched his long, beautiful body as he walked toward the dresser. From the top drawer, he removed a small, wrapped box and carried it back to the bed. Sarah waited for him to get under the covers again before opening the package.
Inside was a stunning gold brooch. She turned it around in her fingers.
“It goes this way,” Joe said, taking it from her hands. “It’s our initials, see?” He ran the tip of his finger over the smooth gold. “Here’s a J for me, and an S for you. Do you see it?”
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” she said. “Oh, thank you, Joe. I’ll always wear it.”
Drawing her to him gently, Joe buried his lips in her hair. “We’re going to have a phenomenal marriage, Sarah,” he said. “We’ll travel and see plays and laugh together. You’ll wear your pin every day. And at least once a week, we’ll go to Seville’s for inspiration.”
Sarah laughed as she reached behind him to set the brooch on the nightstand. Then she pulled her husband into her arms, hoping she could stay in bed with him for hours and hours, on this, the very first day of their phenomenal marriage.
They had reached the entrance of the retirement home when Sarah came to the end of her story. Laura pushed open the front door for her, and Sarah looked surprised.
“Is this it?” she asked. “Is this where I live?”
“Yes,” Laura said. “We walked a long way today.”
“Oh my, yes, we did.” Sarah walked across the threshold into the building, raising her hands over her head in a show of victory that reminded Laura of Sylvester Stallone in the Rocky movies. She couldn’t help but laugh.
Inside the foyer, Sarah pointed in the direction of her apartment. “That way?” she asked.
“That’s right.” Laura walked with her down the hall to be certain Sarah found the right apartment. She was feeling a sadness she could not quite label. Hearing the intimate details of Sarah’s relationship with her husband had made her a bit uncomfortable, although Sarah seemed to have no qualms about sharing them. More than discomfort, she knew she felt some envy. Yes, she’d been married to a fine man, but she had never experienced the sort of intense love, passion and tenderness that Sarah had described so well.
“Come in for a while,” Sarah said when they reached her apartment door.
“I can’t,” Laura said. “I have to get back to Emma. My little girl.”
“Oh.” Sarah pushed her door open. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“No,” Laura said gently. “Remember I said I’d come on Wednesday? I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
“Oh.”
Laura wasn’t sure if she saw disappointment or confusion in Sarah’s face. Perhaps both. “I enjoyed hearing about your life with Joe,” she said. “You were very lucky to have had him.”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “I was very lucky. But luck has a way of changing.”
17
LAURA DIDN’T SLEEP AT ALL THE NIGHT BEFORE HER APPOINTMENT with Dylan Geer and Heather Davison. In the morning, she nearly forgot to give Emma her breakfast, and Emma, of course, said nothing to correct her mistake. She finally made her an English muffin with jelly and a glass of orange juice.
“You’ll have to eat it quickly,” she told her. “I have to take you over to Cory’s so I can go out for a while.”
Emma stopped chewing her muffin, alarm in her eyes.
“Her father’s not there,” Laura said. “He won’t be back till the weekend.”
Emma relaxed and resumed her chewing.
“Though he’s really a very nice man,” Laura added, not wanting Emma to think her fear of Jim Becker was well-founded.
Emma dawdled over her food as she usually did, and Laura finally had to take the muffin away. “Go wash your hands and then we’ll go,” she said.
The phone rang as soon as Emma left the room, and Laura stared at it. She didn’t have time for a call. But what if it was Heather canceling the appointment? She picked up the receiver.
The editor from Ray’s new publishing house was on the line. He introduced himself quickly, his name instantly flying from Laura’s memory, then got to the point of his call.
“Listen,” he said, “we need you to send us a picture of Ray for the book jacket and for us to use in any promo we do
. Do you have one?”
“Well, yes. I’m sure I can find one.” She ran her fingers through her hair as she tried to recall the pictures that had been taken of Ray in recent years. Most of them were casual family shots. There would be few of him alone. “I could use his university picture,” she said.
“Good. We need it as soon as possible. And I wanted to let you know that the marketing people will be in touch with you soon, and I know they’ll have a lot of questions for you. We’re all thrilled about this book,” the nameless editor continued. “I know it’s really ironic, and this probably sounds terrible to you, but the truth is, your husband’s book is more valuable because of his death. It makes him a martyr for his cause. Would you say that Ray killed himself over his frustration at not being able to do more for the homeless? Would that be an accurate statement?”
Laura was taken aback by the question. She had not yet absorbed the idea that Ray was a martyr for his cause.
“Um, I think there were many factors leading to his taking his life.” Primarily me, she thought.
“What exactly did he do for the homeless?”
“What didn’t he do would be an easier question to answer,” she said. “He organized a tent city. He set up tutoring programs for homeless kids. He—” She saw Emma reappear in the doorway of the kitchen and glanced at her watch. “He did too much to summarize right now,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time. I’m on my way out.”
“Well, all right then. I’ll have the marketing people give you a call. And you’ll get that picture to us, okay? Can you e-mail it?”
“Yes. I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “We need to change the title. No Room at the Inn doesn’t have the punch we need.”
She thought of all the nights Ray had lain awake trying to come up with the title for his book. “But I like it,” she said.
“We were thinking of For Shame.”
She frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“Well, as Ray points out in his book, the current social policy is cruel. It perpetuates the problem of homelessness. We should be ashamed of it.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m not sure Ray would have liked it.”
“We think it works,” the editor said. “Listen, you get me that picture, okay?”
Laura shuddered as she got off the phone. It had been like conversing with a vulture. Forcing a smile, she turned to Emma.
“Come on, sweetie,” she said. “Let’s go see Cory.”
Dylan sat in Heather Davison’s waiting room, leafing through an old People magazine without really seeing the pages. The receptionist, a motherly looking woman whose name plate read “Mrs. Quinn,” occasionally caught his eye and smiled at him. He wondered if she knew why he was there. Did she know how crazy this whole thing was? Could she tell that part of him wanted to bolt out the door?
This was the right thing to do, he kept telling himself. Not the easy thing, certainly, but the right thing. The child was his; he had stared at her picture long enough to know that without any doubt. And as long as she was his, he had to do whatever he could to help her. No way around it.
He hadn’t seen or spoken to Bethany in a week, not since the night she delivered the picture to him from his mailbox. She’d left a few messages for him, and he’d left a few in return, carefully timing his calls to when he knew she’d be out. He was afraid she’d ask him more questions about Emma. It wasn’t that he was hiding anything from her. He just didn’t want to get into it. He missed her, but he wouldn’t see her until he had this situation clear in his own mind. So, instead of seeing Bethany, he’d gone out with a different woman, a woman he knew simply wanted to have a good time, someone who avoided heavy questions as much as he did.
He had never been to a therapist before. Not of his own volition, at any rate. After the crash, it had been required, but one session had been enough for him, and he’d quit therapy and the airlines the same afternoon. It had seemed ludicrous to him then that talking could do anything to help him. Talking wouldn’t have brought Katy back.
The front door to the office opened and Laura Brandon walked into the waiting room. He saw the relief on her face when she spotted him, as if she hadn’t actually expected him to show up.
“Hi,” he said, getting to his feet. Her face was flushed and she looked pretty. He could understand why he might have been drawn to her at that party years ago. Her long, thick brown hair was laced with gold, and her brown eyes were large and dark-lashed. Emma looked far more like him than she did her mother.
“Thanks for agreeing to come,” Laura said.
“You’re welcome.” He was about to take his seat again when another woman walked into the room.
“Hi, Laura,” the woman said. She held her hand out to Dylan. “I’m Heather Davison,” she said. “And you must be Dylan?”
“Yes. Hi.” He shook her hand, surprised. She looked like a kid. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore burgundy overalls over a pink T-shirt.
The three of them walked into Heather’s office. The therapist plunked herself down in the large leather chair, while he and Laura took the two upholstered chairs, neatly angled side by side. He felt odd sitting next to Laura, as though they were supposed to be a couple.
“Well, Dylan,” Heather began, “I have to compliment you. I have a lot of respect for you, coming in here like this. It takes guts.”
He shifted in his seat with discomfort. “I’m not feeling particularly gutsy at the moment,” he said.
“What’s this like for you?” Heather asked.
“Uh…terrifying,” he said, and the two women smiled at his honesty.
“Well, I’m very glad you’re here, but I want to be certain you understand the gravity of the situation before you make any decisions that could affect the rest of your life. And Emma’s.”
Dylan swallowed. He couldn’t believe how nervous he felt.
Heather leaned forward. “It’s critical that you don’t agree to come into Emma’s life unless two things exist. One, that Laura feels completely comfortable with you doing so, and two, that you feel absolutely certain you can commit to Emma. She’s already lost one father, and it’s left her shell-shocked. The trauma of losing a second father could be too much for her.”
She sounded like a genuine therapist now in spite of the overalls, and Dylan nodded.
“I understand that,” he said. “But what I don’t understand is what’s really going on with Emma. Laura said she hasn’t talked since her father died.”
“That’s right,” Heather said. “Not only doesn’t she speak, but she’s regressed in a number of other ways, as well. She’s become very clingy, hasn’t she, Laura?”
Laura nodded solemnly.
“She’s uncomfortable around men, and that’s the main reason I wanted to see what sort of guy you are and if you might want to help her out. She thinks of men as angry, hostile beings. You’ll have to be careful how you handle your anger around her.”
He nodded again. Why was this kid so screwed up?
“She also suffers from nightmares,” Heather continued, “or at least we assume that’s what’s happening. It’s difficult to know exactly, since she can’t talk to us about them. And she wets the bed. She’d been completely dry for nearly three years.”
“But why?” Dylan asked. “Other kids lose their fathers and it doesn’t cause them to…regress that much.”
Heather turned to Laura. “Doesn’t Dylan know how Ray died?” she asked.
Laura shook her head. “I haven’t really had a chance to tell him,” she said. Dylan braced himself. This wasn’t going to be good.
Laura looked at him squarely. “My husband committed suicide,” she said. “I was out of the house. Ray was supposed to be watching Emma. He shot himself in our bedroom. When I got home, Emma was standing at the bottom of the stairs, screaming. She was inconsolable. I don’t know if she saw him do it, or if she only saw him after it happened,
but one way or another, it left her…the way she is now.”
Dylan saw the sheen of tears in Laura’s dark eyes. Emma was not the only person scarred by her father’s suicide.
“God,” he said. “That was cruel of him to do it when she was home.”
“He was really depressed, and I think depressed people don’t think too clearly,” Laura said.
She sounded only mildly defensive, yet Dylan wished he could take back his words.
“It’s true that Ray suffered from clinical depression for most of his life,” Heather said, her eyes on Dylan, “but Laura has a strong need to defend him. Yes, Ray did some very good things during his life, but from what I’ve gathered, he wasn’t a very loving or attentive parent for Emma.” She looked apologetically at Laura for exposing that fact.
“He was also trying unsuccessfully to get a book published,” Laura said, continuing her defense. “And he was upset with me because he thought I was more dedicated to my career than I was to him.”
“What kind of work do you do?” Dylan asked. He realized he knew almost nothing about this woman.
“I’m an astronomer,” she said. “I work at the Air and Space Museum and teach at Hopkins, and I do research that requires me to travel a lot. At least I did all of that until recently. I’m taking time off for Emma.”
Dylan saw the guilt in her face and felt a weird desire to reach out and squeeze her hand in an effort to erase it. He kept his hands to himself, though. “I used to fly for the airlines,” he said. “I know how hard travel can be on a relationship.”
“If you were to get involved in Emma’s life,” Heather interrupted their conversation, “it wouldn’t be as a substitute for Ray, but as a completely separate, unique individual. Her birth father.”
“Can Emma have picked up her problem from her father somehow? From her adoptive father?” Dylan asked. “I mean, if he was mentally ill, could she have—”
“No.” Heather sat forward, legs apart, elbows on knees, the picture of sincerity. “And this is important for you to understand, Dylan. Emma is simply a healthy, normal child who suffered a trauma. She has what we call post-traumatic stress disorder.”