Chapter 8

Annie sat at the kitchen counter, reading her art history book, a binder open beside her so that she could write notes. So far she had been to only three classes, but all had proved fascinating. The instructor was an artist who knew art history inside and outside and upside down. His passion for the subject came through, firing her imagination as well.

The telephone rang, causing her pulse to shoot up. It rang a second time and she started to reach for it, then held off. After four rings, the machine picked up the call. “This is 555-7836. No one is available to take your call. Please leave your name and number at the sound of the beep.”

She listened, thankful Susan hadn’t played any more pranks and changed the message again. The last message was “In jail. Need bail. Unless you have bond, don’t respond.” Though Annie’s father had laughed and left a message, her mother had not seen the humor in it. “I suppose you think that’s funny, Susan. It isn’t! Anne, this is your mother. Call home.”

Annie had done so and suffered through a fifteen-minute, one-sided diatribe in which her mother had called her to task for not having the courtesy to call home sooner. “Do you have any idea how much I worry about you? I had to take a sleeping pill last night . . .”

“Just erase the message, Annie,” Susan had advised. “For crying out loud, you know what she’s going to say. She’s been giving you a guilt trip for as long as I’ve known you.”

“She’s my mother. I can’t just ignore her.” No matter how much she wished she could. But her conscience wouldn’t allow it. Over the past few days, her mother had called no fewer than ten times. Each time she turned up the guilt even higher.

“I love you so much. . . . Every time I see the news, I wonder . . .” Her mother didn’t have to say the rest. Annie knew it already. Her mother wouldn’t worry so much if she were attending Wellesley. After all, she would be in a women’s dormitory; there would be supervision; she would be mingling with girls from good homes.

The answering machine beeped. She heard a man laughing. “What happened to the other message? You make parole? This is your big bro, in case you’ve forgotten the sound of my voice. I’m driving up to the big city this weekend. Whaddya say to a ritzy dinner someplace? Someplace other than that garlic joint where you work. Give me a call back, Suzie Q.”

“Bad boys . . . bad boys . . . whatcha gonna do . . . ?” Barnaby belted out, bobbing his head as he stood on his perch.

Annie chuckled before returning her attention to her textbook, thankful the call hadn’t been from her mother. She hadn’t responded to the last two calls, one from last night and one from this morning, although she knew she’d have to call her mother soon or hear the telephone ringing again. The date had come and gone for Annie to change her mind and go east to college. Why wouldn’t her mother let it go? She was like a pit bull with her teeth sunk into an idea.

Susan came in an hour later. Annie had just finished reading the last section assigned and was going over her notes. “Mom and Dad send their love,” Susan said, flinging her purse onto the sofa. “Any calls?”

“Sam.”

Susan pushed the button and stood listening to her brother’s voice. “Awesome!” She grinned. “Let’s give him a heart attack and ask him to take us to the Carnelian Room!”

“You ask him. I won’t be here.”

Susan frowned. “You’re going to see your mother?”

“I’m scheduled to work Thursday and Friday this week, so I asked my grandmother if I could spend Saturday with her. I’d like to spend the night, too, but I don’t want to put her out. Would you mind if I borrowed your sleeping bag?”

“It’s yours.”

“Thanks, Suzie.”

Now if she could just get Grandma Leota to let her work in the garden.

“You’re really getting into this volunteer business, aren’t you?” Ruth said, a mocking smile on her face as she continued her stretching exercises on the floor. She was wearing black sweatpants and a white tank top. “Wednesday and now Saturday, too.”

“We didn’t have anything planned, did we?”

“Not that I’ve heard about.” Not missing a beat of the music, she touched her forehead to her right knee and then walked her hands across in front of her, took hold of her left heel and touched her forehead to her left knee. “I’ll probably be studying all day.”

Corban watched, annoyed. She had the exercise video on the television, the volume turned up. He’d seen her go through this often enough to know she had another forty-five minutes to go before completing the routine. “Feel the burn,” the too-perky exercise leader droned on. “Hold it. That’s it. One. Two. Three. Four. . . .”

It was hard for him to concentrate when Ruth did her workout in the living room. The music wasn’t bad the first dozen times, but after that, it began to wear on his nerves. He wanted to put his foot through the television screen and send the image of the exercise instructor into oblivion. “I thought we agreed you’d do this in the morning,” he said evenly.

“I know, but I wasn’t in the mood today. I thought about skipping it altogether and decided I’d better not. Skip one day and pretty soon I’d skip another.”

The way he was supposed to skip studying for the next hour? “I have two hours to study before I have to leave, and I can’t concentrate with that music going.”

“It won’t kill you to wait half an hour!”

Her tone lit his fuse. He punched the Power button, shutting the video off. “And it wouldn’t kill you to hold to the schedule we agreed on.”

Her face was flushed, whether from the workout or temper, he didn’t know. Nor at that moment did he particularly care. Her dark eyes were hot. He met her glare, waiting. He was beginning to think he’d made a terrible mistake when he asked her to move in with him.

A frown flickered across her face as she looked into his eyes. She glanced away, then straightened into a sitting position and stood in one smooth movement. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” She pushed another button and took the video out. She slipped it into its case and snapped it shut. “I’ll go out for a run instead.” She dropped the box lightly on the coffee table, rather than onto the shelf where it belonged, and went into the bedroom.

Corban sat on the couch and flipped his philosophy book open. His teeth were clenched so tight his jaw was beginning to ache. He didn’t want to think about what might be going on in Ruth’s head right then. But he figured he knew anyway. She always knew when to capitulate—right at the last moment.

She came out of the bedroom wearing red satin running shorts and a white sports bra. She slipped a white band around her head, adjusting her short hair while looking at him. He recognized the expression she wore. She knew she looked good, so good she thought she could take his breath away anytime she wanted. It had been true the first couple of months of their cohabitation. His eyes flickered over her from head to running-shoe-clad feet, but it wasn’t desire that flared this time.

“Maybe we could do something together when I get back from my run.” She gave him her cat smile. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

“Take your time,” he said, returning his gaze to the book in his lap.

She stood a moment longer. He could feel her staring at him but didn’t give her the satisfaction of looking at her again. Her ploy had worked before, but not this time. He wasn’t a puppet she could work by pulling a few strings. He cared about her. More deeply than he wanted to admit. He also knew if he looked at her again, he was going to say what was running through his mind, and he’d regret it later. Sometimes, though, he wondered if she cared for him at all.

She went to the door. Opening it, she turned back to face him again. “You know, Cory, sometimes I wonder why you invited me to live with you. I thought you loved me. Isn’t that silly? You make me feel used.”

He looked up from his book. “In that case, I’d say our relationship is strictly symbiotic.”

She slammed the door on her way out.

Nora pulled up in front of her mother’s house. Heart drumming, she sat still for a few seconds, trying to calm her nerves. She needed a cigarette. She needed a glass of wine. She closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath, holding it and expelling it slowly. Her yoga instructor had once told her that would calm her. So had her psychologist.

Still trembling, Nora got out of the car, pressed the remote to lock the door, and headed for the house. She hated coming back to this neighborhood, feeling so torn with memories each time she did. Tucking her red, leather clutch under her arm, she punched the doorbell. How long had it been since she last saw her mother? A twinge of guilt stirred, but she quickly smothered it with resentment.

Why should she feel guilty? So what if she had turned down several invitations her mother had extended over the past years? Had her mother been there for her when she was growing up? No. Her mother had moved her and George in with Grandma and Grandpa Reinhardt, then danced off to live her own life. Had her mother been with her the first day she went to school? No. Grandma Helene held her hand and walked her to school. In fact, it had been Grandma Helene who had walked her to school every day until she was in second grade and sent off by herself.

Had her mother gone on any of the school outings? No. Grandma Helene had gone. Once. Nora felt a twinge remembering how embarrassed she had been when other students commented on her grandmother’s thick German accent.

Had her mother been the one to make her a dress for her high school prom? Of course not. She’d made it herself!

What good had all her mother’s work ever done anyone other than herself? There had never been money for any extras. While other girls had shiny Mary Jane shoes with chic straps, she had worn oxfords. When other girls took piano and dancing lessons, she had to take clarinet because the school taught it for free. When other girls went on family outings and vacations, her family stayed home.

She remembered Grandma and Grandpa bickering, always in German so she couldn’t understand what they were saying. She remembered her father drinking and sitting for hours in his chair—silent, morose, alone—while fear roamed rampant within her.

And where was her mother through all those years?

Living her own life just as she pleased. Working!

She deserves to be left alone. Then she’ll know what it feels like to be deserted.

Nora was swimming in the high tide of her emotions when her mother finally opened the door. “What took you so long, Mother?” Had she looked through the window and seen who it was—and hoped she’d go away?

“I was in the kitchen. I don’t move as quickly as I used to.” She lifted the chain and stepped back.

Nora entered and stood in the living room, looking around. The smell of the house made memories come flooding back. Few were good. “Nothing’s changed, has it?”

“Why would it?” Her mother closed the door quietly. She left the chain off. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Tea would have been nice, but Nora didn’t want to accept anything from her mother. Not now. Her mother could offer her the moon, and she wouldn’t take it. It was too late. “I won’t be staying very long, Mother. I just felt there was a need to clarify some things regarding Anne.”

Her mother eased herself into her recliner and folded her hands in her lap. She seemed to be in pain, and she had aged a great deal since the last time Nora had seen her.

I’m not going to feel sorry for her. Not after the way she ignored me most of my life!

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Nora put her clutch beside her and held her knees. “Anne is at a very impressionable age. She needs guidance. Up to a few weeks ago, she’d always been the model daughter. Now, she’s taken it in her head to throw away college, live with a hippie friend in San Francisco, and become an artist, of all things. But maybe you know all this since she’s been here visiting with you.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing one way or the other. Nora had expected as much. No cooperation. “She’s a gifted student, Mother. She graduated with top grades, had very high scores on the SAT. She had immaculate references and recommendations. She was offered a wonderful scholarship to a prestigious college in the East. Then one day she just snapped and said she didn’t want to go. She got in her car and drove off without thinking things through.” Nora smoothed her skirt and rested her hands on her knees again.

“Now I’ve fixed things temporarily so that she can still go. I’ve spoken with the dean of admissions and told him Anne has taken ill and couldn’t come. They’ve agreed to hold her scholarship until next semester.”

“You lied to them?”

Nora’s face went hot. Anger surged, making her feel on fire. Leave it to her mother to see the negative side of anything! “Do the right thing,” she had always said. Do the right thing! Had she? “She is sick, Mother! She must be sick in the head to throw this opportunity away!”

“Because it’s what you want?”

“Yes,” she said through her teeth, rising. “Yes, it’s what I want for her. It’s what anyone with half an ounce of sense would want. She’s groomed herself for years for this chance, and suddenly she runs. Well, I’m not going to let her be such a little coward. I’m not going to allow her to throw it all away.”

“What if it’s not what she wants?”

“It is what she wants. It’s what she’s always wanted. We’ve been talking about colleges from the time she entered kindergarten.”

Her mother sighed softly, looking weary and old. “Maybe if you would just hold off for a time and allow her to find her own way—”

“You mean the way you did. Back away completely.” Nora should have expected as much. “I should be like you?” She saw the flicker of hurt in her mother’s eyes at her sarcasm, but anger took hold of her. “Is that it, Mother? Have nothing to do with making some kind of future for my children?” She saw the sheen of tears in her mother’s eyes and felt ashamed. In the wake of her shame came another wave of anger. How dare her mother try to make her feel guilty? “I should’ve known you wouldn’t help me or even try to understand. You never did.”

“I understand. Only too well.” She sounded so sad, so worn down and hopeless.

Nora’s eyes also filled with tears. She fought them, not even sure why they had come welling up, making her want to cry out. Part of her wanted desperately to reach out to her mother, to say she was sorry, to cling to her. Another part wanted to lacerate her for all the times Nora had desperately needed her and she hadn’t been there. “I want what’s best for my daughter!”

“I know you do, dear. But your best may not be God’s best.”

Nora stiffened at the gentle words, for they were a firm rebuke. “What would you know of God’s best for my daughter? When was the last time you went to church, Mother? Ten years ago? I go every Sunday. Anne-Lynn should honor my plans for her. Instead she’s decided to be stubborn and rebellious. And you’re helping her!”

Her mother closed her eyes as though she couldn’t bear to look at her.

“I should’ve known better than to come and talk to you,” Nora said, voice cracking. “You were never there for me before. I was foolish to hope you’d be here for me now.” She snatched her clutch bag from the sofa and headed for the door.

“I’ve always been there for you,” her mother said in a choked voice. “Every day of my life, only you never understood. You never even tried.”

Nora turned on her furiously. “When were you ever there for me? Name once!”

Her mother didn’t respond to her attack. Instead, she spoke in a quiet tone. “You’ve always said I destroyed your dreams. Why would you enlist me to do the same to your own daughter?”

Trembling, Nora stared at her. She drew in a shaky breath. “You always twist everything I say just so you can make me feel guilty.”

“I can’t make you feel anything.”

“Oh, yes, you can.” The resentment and bitterness filled her to overflowing. “I want you to know the only reason Anne-Lynn spends any time with you at all is because she knows it hurts me. She’s using you to get back at me. You just don’t understand.”

“I understand you perfectly, Eleanor.”

Trembling violently, Nora yanked the front door open. “That’s how much you care, Mother. You still persist in calling me that name when you know I hate it!”

“You’ve always been Eleanor to me, and you always will be.”

“There’s no talking to you! You always have to have your way in everything. Well, enjoy your solitude!” She hurled the door shut. Her heels clicked on the steps. Two black children had drawn a colored-chalk hopscotch on the sidewalk. No child would be allowed to make a mess like that in Blackhawk. They paused in their play to look at her. Averting her eyes, Nora got into her car and started the engine. Pulling away from the curb, she drove quickly down the street, turned right, and headed for the freeway on-ramp.

She wept all the way home.

Despite Ruth’s apology after her run, Corban remained depressed. He always felt an emotional backlash when he let his emotions get the better of him. For the first time since she’d moved in with him, he refused to take back what he had said. She noticed, of course, but said nothing.

It seemed to him that she made more effort over the next two days. She did her share of household chores and kept her bargain about maintaining quiet during his study hours.

Yet, he knew he was living in the eye of a tornado.

Her attitude would change when she met with her friends again. It always did. The storm clouds were building overhead, and he and Ruth would end up in the twister before she settled down again. If she did.

Having overheard some of the conversations as well as what Ruth had told him, Corban had gleaned that most of these young women with whom she hung out were from broken families, as was she. Two girls had been sexually abused by male relatives. He could understand how they might hate the men who had abused them, but did that group all males in the brutal category? Or give them due cause for becoming lesbians? Three of the ten who met had “come out of the closet.” Two of those were “comfortable” with their alternative lifestyles, their families having come to terms with them; the third was an emotional mess, swinging from frothing hostility to despair.

“Someday she’ll kill herself,” Ruth had said flatly after one particularly distressing evening in which the girl had monopolized the meeting in venting her anger. “And it’ll be her parents’ fault for not allowing her to be herself. They should be forced to see it’s perfectly natural for some people to be homosexual. She was born that way.”

“Hogwash! She’s the one who isn’t accepting things.”

Ruth’s eyes had flashed. “She’s happy as what she is.”

“Happy? You call that happy?”

“Well, if you had people calling you terrible names, maybe you wouldn’t be happy either!”

“The only names I heard this evening were the ones coming out of her mouth.”

“You’re so close-minded, Cory. It’s pathetic. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were homophobic.”

“I’m close-minded? Well, maybe they ought to meet somewhere else since it’s my apartment they’re coming to in order to vent their spleens against all males.”

They had digressed from there. It had been one of their worst arguments ever. After they finally shouted themselves out and spent the night sleeping apart, they had agreed to let the subject drop. For two weeks, Ruth had gone elsewhere to meet with her friends. And then they were back again, his digs apparently being more comfortable than wherever else they’d been.

They made him nervous, these women who sat around talking about intolerant men and patriarchal society and equal rights for women. Equal to them meant women should get the first chance at the best jobs. Another case of affirmative action gone awry. More militants who wanted to use discrimination to end discrimination.

“We’re just going to meet for an hour or two on Saturday morning,” Ruth said, serving him the dinner she had prepared, Prego poured over boiled noodles with some parmesan sprinkled on top.

“Any Tabasco?”

She set the bottle down in front of him. “There’s going to be a march in San Francisco in a couple of weeks, and we want to prepare for it.”

“What’s it about this time?”

“Funding for AIDS research. We thought we’d make a banner.”

Sloshing Tabasco over his spaghetti, Corban decided to be elsewhere on Saturday.

The bell rang on Friday afternoon shortly after Annie finished getting ready for work. She pressed the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Sam.”

“Come on up.” She pushed another button, releasing the lock on the front door of the building. “Suz. Your brother’s here.”

“Tonight? He wasn’t supposed to get here until tomorrow.”

“Well, he’s here.” Annie plumped the pillows and tossed them onto the couch, gathered up some of Susan’s clothing, and quickly folded and stuffed the items into a dresser. Hurrying across to the kitchenette, she gathered glasses and plates and put them in the sink, squirting in liquid soap and running water over them. They’d have to soak for now. It was Susan’s turn to do them, and they were both on their way to work.

Susan appeared from the bathroom, dressed in her straight, black skirt and white blouse. The doorbell buzzed as she frantically brushed her hair on the way to answer. “What are you doing here? It’s Friday. You said Saturday.”

“Chill out, Suzie Q. I just came by to let you know I’m checked in . . .”

Annie turned from the sink and felt his gaze fixed on her. Susan laughed, looking from him to her. She winked. “You remember Annie Gardner, don’t you, Sam?”

“This is Annie? What happened to the Pippi Longstocking replication?”

Annie blushed. “Nice to see you, too, Sam.” She was embarrassed at the reminder of how she had worn her carrot-red hair in pigtails. The red had faded some, along with the freckles that had once dotted her nose.

His eyes warmed, and a wolfish smile spread across his handsome face. “All grown up . . .”

“But she’s got someplace to go.”

“Bad boys, bad boys,” Barnaby sang out loudly, and they all laughed.

“We’re on our way to work, Sam, but you’re welcome to hang out here if you’d like.”

“No way. I came to the city to have some fun.”

“Whatcha gonna do . . . ? Whatcha gonna do . . . ?” Barnaby sang loudly, bobbing his head.

“Sounds like the bird’d like to go with me.” Sam grinned.

“You want him?” Susan said brightly. “You can have him with my blessings.”

Sam laughed. “No way.”

Annie took her jacket from the back of a chair. “I hate to break up the family reunion,” she said with a smile, “but we’d better go, Suzie. We’re going to be late.”

“You know, I haven’t eaten yet,” Sam said, following them out. “Why don’t I come to the Smelly Clove?”

“You hate garlic.”

“Hate’s a strong word. Besides, it has medicinal value, I hear.”

“It does.”

“Well, I think I might be developing a cold. I need a little preventive medicine. What do you say?”

Susan gave him the address and directions as they went down the stairs and out to Annie’s car.

“See you there.” Sam lifted his hand in a casual wave, then crossed the street to his van.

Susan slid into the bucket seat and snapped on the seat belt. “Well, well. I’ve got the feeling we’re going to see a lot more of my brother.” She looked at Annie and grinned.

Annie figured Sam had changed his mind when he didn’t follow them to the restaurant. She was more relieved than disappointed. Though his obvious flirtation had been heady and a decided boost to her self-confidence, she knew he was dangerous in more ways than one.

At fifteen, she had thought Samuel James Carter, rebellious and delinquent, was some kind of romantic hero. She had fantasized about being like the heroine in a Harlequin novel, whose love and purity would melt the arrogance and cynicism of the hero.

But she had grown up over the last three years. She had learned how devastating and heartbreaking Sam’s rebellion had been to his family. They could joke about it now, but she remembered Suzie’s anger and Mrs. Carter’s tears. He’d had to crash and burn before his life turned around. Sam was deep water, and where the world was concerned, Annie didn’t know how to swim.

“He must’ve tipped Hal,” Susan said in passing.

“Pardon me?”

“Sam. He’s being seated in your area.”

Annie collected several dishes of food and delivered them to patrons, asking if there was anything else they needed. She saw Sam sitting at a small table in the corner, where he could watch everything going on in the room. The bar waitress had just left his table, and several young women seated nearby were looking at him. He didn’t appear to notice them. All his attention seemed fixed on her. His smile was roguish and challenging.

She passed him by once. “I’ll be with you in just a moment, sir.”

“I’m not going anywhere, ma’am.”

She replenished coffee for several tables and then went back to his. “Have you decided what you’d like this evening, sir? Or would you like a little more time?”

“I’ve decided.” His eyes twinkled in amusement.

Taking the leather pad with pencil from the pocket of her short, black apron, Annie flipped it open.

“Why don’t you tell me what the specials are anyway.” He leaned back, studying her at his leisure.

There were six dishes posted on the chalkboard at the restaurant entrance. Part of her job was to memorize them. She described each with all the succulent adjectives the management provided, aware of Sam’s amused perusal throughout her recitation.

He grinned. “Very nicely done.”

“So, what’ll it be?” She spoke to him as though he were a perfect stranger who had just come into the restaurant for the first time.

“The twenty-clove rabbit.”

“A good choice,” she said, jotting down his order. “Soup or salad?”

“What kind of soup?”

“Gazpacho garlic.”

“Salad. Ranch dressing. Plenty of pepper.”

“I’ll bring you some bread.”

“Bring plenty of water, too, please, while you’re about it.”

She gave a soft laugh and flipped her order book closed and tucked it into her pocket.

Friday was always busy. She was working eight tables and moving fast to make sure everyone had what they wanted. One table would no sooner empty and be bused than another party would be seated. After two hours she had made enough in tips to buy groceries for a week.

And Sam was still there.

Replenishing his water glass for the third time, Annie noticed his plate. “You don’t like the rabbit?”

He grimaced. “Let’s just say I don’t think I’m going to have any trouble with vampires. I’m going to have garlic coming out my pores for the next week.”

She managed to fight off a grin. “You won’t get a cold.”

“No, but I’m getting the cold shoulder.” His brows lifted in a teasing question.

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem about that. There are three ladies at the table just behind me who have been trying all evening to get your attention.”

“Is that a brush-off, Annie? I’m wounded.”

“You have the skin of an armadillo, Sam.”

“And I thought you used to have a crush on me.”

“Before I knew any better.”

He grinned. “I’ll try anything at this point.” When she started to turn away, he said, “By the way, what’s your sign?”

It was the oldest line in the book, and he knew it. Obviously it was time a few things were clarified. Perhaps when they were, he wouldn’t waste his time. “The fish.”

“Pisces.” The roguish grin was back, along with a decidedly wicked gleam in his eyes. “Good sign.”

“Yes, it is. But not Pisces.”

He frowned. “No?”

“Nope. Ichthus. Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior.”

The teasing demeanor evaporated, and he looked straight into her eyes with an intensity she hadn’t expected. “There’s a message for me in those words, I take it.”

“I hope so.”

His mouth curved ruefully. “Worried the lion wants to lie down with the lamb?”

Heat surged into her cheeks. She expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. His expression grew serious, contemplative. She felt the pull of his charm, the stirring inside at his intense look. With slow deliberation, she placed his check on the table, closed her order pad, and tucked it in its place. “Have a nice evening, Sam. Try to stay out of trouble.”

Nora sat in her family room, a white throw wrapped around herself. She stared at the television but could make no sense of the movie. Her mind kept drifting.

It was ten o’clock, and Fred wasn’t home yet. He’d left a message on the answering machine that he was taking clients out to dinner. Surely it didn’t take this long, unless he’d gone to the city.

Thinking about dinner in the city made her think about Anne working in a restaurant. Maybe Fred had taken his clients where she worked and would put in a word to her about the distress she was causing her mother. No, Fred wouldn’t do that. He had left Anne’s upbringing entirely to her. He had felt his position as stepfather left him out of the loop where Annie was concerned. As long as she didn’t interfere with his life, he would stay out of hers. They had a congenial relationship.

Sometimes it bothered Nora that Fred refused to become more involved. “It’s up to you how you handle things,” he would say. “She’s your daughter, Nora, not mine.”

She needed an ally this time. She needed someone strong to back her up.

Why wouldn’t Anne listen to her anymore? Why was her daughter turning against her now and running to her grandmother?

When eleven rolled around, Nora began to feel unease in the pit of her stomach. The past reared its ugly head once more, haunting her as it always had with people’s previous mistakes. She’d fallen in love with Bryan Taggart when she was sixteen. He was four years older, had a job, and was going to college. He was handsome, bright, and charming. She had been convinced he would fulfill all her hopes for a better life.

What had started as a romantic adventure had quickly turned into a nightmare of fights, bills, sleepless nights, and broken dreams.

She had been so desperate to make the marriage work and thought a baby would force Bryan to keep the job that seemed to offer the most promising future. However, her announcement that she was pregnant hadn’t held the marriage together; it had shattered it. Bryan had been furious, calling her deceitful and selfish. He’d said she had done everything to ruin his life and he was sick of her. He deserted her before Michael was born, leaving her with no other choice but to move back in with her mother and father.

She still remembered what her mother had said to her the first evening she had come home. It had been the greatest cruelty of all after all she had been through in over two years of marriage. “You expected too much too soon.” Crushed and feeling dismissed, she’d sought solace from Grandma Helene, who had agreed with her about everything. Bryan Taggart hadn’t been good enough for her.

At least she had finished high school during those torturous months.

Her second marriage hadn’t been much better than the first. Dean Gardner had all the markings of her Prince Charming. A graduate of Berkeley and Stanford with degrees in business and accounting, he was already starting up the ladder in banking. As Dean’s wife, she would have security and the opportunities she had lacked before. And so would Michael. She registered for college classes during the hours that Michael was in school. She took her son to all kinds of cultural events. She poured everything she could into developing her son and herself into people who could mingle in the best of society.

And all the while she was bettering herself, Dean was cheating on her. She hadn’t learned about his affair with one of the secretaries in his office until several years later. She had only known something was wrong, but when she became pregnant with Anne, Dean had once again become the doting husband he’d been in the beginning. He’d been an even more doting father when Anne was born.

As soon as Anne was old enough, Nora resumed her efforts to see that Michael was given the best education possible. She began making plans for Anne as well. She played classical music during her daughter’s crib time to increase her intelligence. Even the games she played with Anne were designed to develop mental skills and physical abilities.

Her children were going to have every opportunity she missed; their potential was going to be developed.

Dean came to resent the attention she poured on the children. Most of all he resented her love for Michael. “You never discipline the boy!” She’d never been able to understand that accusation when it seemed Michael’s every moment was regulated. His life was one of discipline. Wasn’t she seeing to that?

And yet, despite all her efforts, Michael had betrayed her too. He had searched for Bryan Taggart. Though they had met, no real relationship had grown from it. Yet it seemed something had broken between her and her son anyway. The more successful Michael became, the more distant he was. She had poured out so much love and effort on him, but he had no time for her.

Dean had never understood how torn she was, how wounded. She’d taken him at his word to do whatever she needed to find what it was she wanted. Unlike her mother, she brought Anne everywhere, even to the college classes she took. When that became impossible, she gave up her own dreams to make sure Anne would have the opportunities she had missed. Wasn’t she doing as much for Michael?

And then Dean stunned her by saying he was quitting a job that paid six figures a year and starting his own business. She saw all her security going up in flames. The fights had started then and hadn’t ended until he filed for divorce. Her lawyer had insisted that Dean was being more than generous, giving her the house and savings. Alimony would have been asking too much, especially since his only income then was the pittance he was making in his new business enterprise. The one good thing she could say about Dean Gardner was that he never quibbled about sending child support. The checks always arrived at the first of the month.

The year they divorced, she heard from Anne—then six years old—that he had moved in with the woman who had been his secretary at the bank. When he relocated his business to Southern California, the woman had stayed behind. Anne told her after a holiday visit that they were still friends. Nora could make no sense of her ex-husband’s life, nor did she want to have anything to do with him, other than to receive her monthly checks. However, by court order, Nora had been forced to send Anne to spend the summer with Dean.

When she returned, Nora learned that he was living with another woman. He lived with that woman for several years before she apparently accepted a lucrative job in New York and left. Amicably, again. Now Dean was living with yet another woman, younger this time.

It had been fourteen years since their divorce, and still Nora would sometimes feel the hurt that he hadn’t loved her enough to make their marriage work. The things he had said were so cruel, so demeaning, so completely untrue. And still, even after all this time, she felt jealous every time she heard he was with someone else.

What sense was there in that when she loved Fred?

The third time is the charm, so they say. And thus far, she had thought her third marriage was perfect.

Until tonight.

Where was Fred? It was after two in the morning, and he still wasn’t home.

Was he betraying her, too, just like everyone she loved had betrayed her?

God, why do they do it? Why do they all turn away from me? I pour out my life on them, and they turn away. My mother didn’t love me enough to spend time with me. My father hardly ever said a word to me. Bryan deserted me. Dean cheated on me. Michael never has time for me. Anne wants to have everything her own way. And now Fred . . .

The garage door hummed. Her heart thumped crazily, mingling relief with anger. How dare Fred stay out this late? She sat in the wing chair facing the hall. He would see the light was still on and come in to check on her. She heard the door from the garage open. He appeared, his suit coat still on, his raincoat draped over one shoulder, a briefcase in his hand. He looked tired.

“Where have you been, Fred? I’ve been worried sick about you. It’s half past two.”

“I’ve been at Scoma’s in San Francisco. The gentlemen from Japan arrived this morning. Remember?” His mouth was tight with irritation.

She frowned slightly, her anger seeping away. Something was wrong.

“You don’t even remember, do you, Nora?” Fred said quietly. He just looked at her, waiting. She was at a complete loss for words. His smile was bleak. “You’re so caught up in Anne’s insurrection that everything else has gone bye-bye.” His eyes darkened slightly. “I told you a month ago these men were coming. I told you how important this contract could be to the business. They’ll be here through Saturday.”

She saw accusation in his eyes. “Why are you angry with me? What did I do wrong?”

“Yesterday morning I told you I’d call and let you know where we were having dinner tonight. You were supposed to meet me there, Nora.”

She felt cold, suddenly remembering everything. How could she have forgotten?

“Where were you, Nora?”

“I was at my mother’s,” she said in a shaky voice, horrified that she had let him down so badly. It was Anne’s fault this had happened! If Anne hadn’t run off and put her through an emotional wringer, she would have done her duty by Fred.

His expression altered. “Is your mother sick?”

“She looks worse than I’ve ever seen her.” It was true. She had been shocked at how her mother had aged since the last time she saw her.

“Did she call you?”

“No. I just . . . I just had a feeling something was wrong.” Thinking about Anne’s betrayal, she put her hands over her face and started to cry. “I had to see her. Everything else just went out of my head. I’ve just had the worst day of my life. And now, to top it off, you’re angry with me.”

In the past, Fred had always been quick to comfort her. Tonight he stayed where he was. With a sigh, he dropped his raincoat over the back of the sofa and set his briefcase down. “I need a drink.” He went behind the wet bar, took a bottle of scotch from the lower cabinet, and poured himself half a glass.

Sniffling and dabbing her nose with a lace hankie, Nora couldn’t stop the twinge of resentment that Fred hadn’t even thought to offer her one.

“It’s going to take some doing for me to save face.” Fred’s tone was grim. He took a swallow of scotch and put the glass down on the bar. He looked across at her enigmatically. “Face matters with the Japanese. Since Mr. Yamamoto’s wife was there and anxious to meet you, the fact that my wife didn’t show up said more to them than the hundred pages of documents I’ve been working on for six months.”

It wasn’t just anger in his eyes. It was hurt and disappointment. She had let him down badly. Fear curled in the pit of her stomach. Would he leave her like all the rest? She tried so hard and nothing ever worked out the way she planned. “I’m sorry, Fred.”

“It’s a little late to be sorry.” He took up the glass again, swallowed the rest of the scotch, then put the glass on the counter. He looked at her again and shook his head slowly as though trying to make sense of everything. “Nora, sometimes I wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?” she said softly when he didn’t continue.

He looked weary and older than his fifty-seven years. “It’s better if I don’t say anything more right now. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

What was that supposed to mean? That it was all her fault? Why couldn’t he try to understand how horrible her day had been? He would understand then how the dinner this evening had slipped her mind. Despite all her efforts, all her sacrifices for those she loved, no one seemed to care what she suffered.

Fred took up his raincoat from the back of the sofa and bent for his briefcase. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Somehow, those few words held an ominous sound.

When he walked out of the room, Nora wept, this time in fear of what the morrow would bring.