Too shocked to react. Too horrified at her own foolishness. Too crushed by his assumption that she would knowingly, willingly enter into an affair with a married man. How Leigh had survived the rest of the minutes till Trent left her, she didn’t know. Finally, after a fast kiss on her forehead and a reminder for her to call him at his private office number so they could make plans for their future, he departed.
Alone at last, she stood in the center of the luxurious suite and stared around. “What do I do now?” she asked the empty, mocking room. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“ Everyone knows I’m married. You must have recognized me. My wife’s the governor’s daughter.”
But she’d lived in San Francisco and before that in New York City attending college. And before that, she’d lived near Arlington, Virginia. She hadn’t known who the governor of Maryland was or who was married to his daughter. And she hadn’t become chummy with any of the other McGovern campaigners except Nancy Hollister, who was from New York and wouldn’t have known, either. Leigh had kept to her self, and only Trent had pursued her. And now she knew why—he’d needed a new mistress.
Her knees suddenly weakened, and she staggered to the amber sofa. Staring at the smudged glasses left on the coffee table from last night, she moaned, feeling almost physically ill. How had she sunk this low? Was it only that she never drank and the rum had weakened her resistance? Her conscience refused to allow this excuse. She’d drunk the alcohol of her own free will. She’d consented to come to Trent’s room alone. She’d let him make love to her, knowing no vows had been spoken between them.
“I have no one to blame but myself.”
What kind of man married for political connections and then had affairs? It was hard to reconcile this kind of coldblooded behavior with the warm and caring man whom she’d spent hours with over the past few months. I must be a very poor judge of character.Or had he been busy seducing her and she hadn’t even realized it? Was she that naïve? Evidently she was.
Trent’s charming words played in her mind: “I’ve never felt anything for a woman like what I feel for you. I didn’t think I was capable of falling in love. “ Was that what men said to their mistresses? Did they try to dress up the relationship as a “love” affair so that the woman didn’t feel the full weight of the guilt of committing adultery?
That’s what I did. I committed adultery.She recalled memorizing the Ten Commandments as a little girl in Sunday school. She remembered wondering why she’d had to because—of course—she’d never break any of those commandments. Without meaning to, she moaned again. She couldn’t ever remember moaning aloud in her life, not even when she’d lost Dane. But each one felt wrenched from deep inside her. What do I do now? How can I ever live this down? Oh, God, forgive me. Forgive me.
Minutes passed, and finally Leigh pulled herself together and left the hotel room. Downstairs, still wobbly, she saw a bank of public telephones off to one side of the lobby. It suddenly dawned on her that she hadn’t driven home to Ivy Manor last night or even called. Her grandmother might be worried. She got change for a couple of dollars from the desk clerk and went to the end phone, trying for some privacy. She dialed the long-distance number, deposited the requested number of coins, and heard the call go through. When her grandmother’s sweet voice came over the line, Leigh nearly burst into tears.
“Grandma,” she said, controlling her shaky voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I was up quite late and then stayed with… a friend here at the hotel.” Pain twisted through her nerves again. A friend, right.Now she was lying to her grandmother.
“That’s what we decided had happened, dear. After all, you had taken an overnight bag with you,” Chloe replied as if this were just an ordinary day, not the day Leigh would regret for the rest of her life. “After McGovern’s defeat, it must have been a rough night for everyone there.”
Who cares about McGovern? “Yes.” This morning was the worst. Oh, Grandma, I didn’t mean this to happen.
“Are you coming home today?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. No, I can’t come home. If I did, I’d break down and tell you what I’ve done. I can’t face you or anyone else in the family. No one must ever know what I’ve done. Oh, Grandma, I hate myself.
But if she did not go back to Ivy Manor or her mother’s house, what was she going to do? She had no place of her own to limp off to and hide from everyone. But suddenly, grasping for straws, she remembered her conversation with her friend Nancy. Nancy’s parting words came to mind: “If you’re ever in New York City, give me a call. I’ve got a sleeper sofa.”
“Grandma, I think that I’m going to go up to New York City.” What possible reason could she give for this? Her frantic mind searched for a reason and came up with, “I might see about starting graduate classes in January. I’ve been at loose ends. Maybe I should go back to school.”
Her grandmother responded with the usual encouragement and request that Leigh call her when she reached New York City safe and sound. “Do you want me to call the Love-ladys? I know they’d love to have you stay with them. Or you could stay with Minnie.”
“No.” Leigh’s denial came swift and strong. She couldn’t face anyone she knew well. “I—” She softened her voice. “I’m going to stay with a friend I met in D.C. in June. She lives in the Village.”
Within seconds, Leigh was able to end the phone call. With almost desperate determination, she dug out Nancy Hollister’s card, buried in her billfold. She dropped more coins into the slot and dialed her friend’s number. No answer. Leigh hung up and retrieved the change from the coin drop. She stood there. Should she go to New York? Did she have a choice?
In times of trouble, she’d always run to Ivy Manor and her grandmother’s open arms. Never before had she run away from Ivy Manor. But she’d never before broken the seventh commandment.
The drive to New York helped Leigh get hold of her stormy emotions. She couldn’t land on Nancy’s doorstep, burst into tears, and confess all. She suspected Trent would never tell anyone about their night together, and certainly she wouldn’t. And Trent would just have to figure out by himself why she didn’t call him. She had no desire to speak to him again, and there was no way, she decided with dark, bitter humor, she could leave a message with his secretary like, “Please tell Mr. Kinnard that I’ve decided not to become his mistress.” No, her absence would have to speak for her.
A heavy feeling weighed her down. She finally identified it as pure guilt, overwhelming regret.
It had been a long time since she’d prayed, but evidently, this event required confession, an act of contrition. She felt foolish somehow, but at the sight of a church spire, she pulled off the highway and drove up the street. She parked beside the white-frame church and turned off the motor. She couldn’t go in—if she met someone, what would she possibly say? I came to confess to committing adultery.
A large sign announced that the church was an historic one, dating from colonial times and with a cemetery beside it. Leigh got out of the car, pulling up the collar of her coat against the sharp November wind, and wandered around the cemetery, reading the weathered headstones. If anyone saw her, they’d think she was one of those people who visited old cemeteries to jot down dates and names of people long gone.
She looked over the gravestones, some leaning with age, some nearly illegible after years of torrents and winds had worn away their etched messages. One of the most common epitaphs was merely, “Beloved Wife.” None of them read, “Beloved Mistress.”
I was supposed to be Dane’s beloved wife. When I lost him, I allowed my grief to stop me from living. And I ended up easy prey for a calculating man. But that’s no excuse. I knew better.
She put a hand on a newer marble headstone and bowed her head. She recalled the biblical tale of David and Bathsheba’s adultery. Now she knew how David must have felt when he’d finally faced his sin—shattered and ashamed. God, You know I’m not very religious, but I feel terrible about what happened last night. I have no good excuse except human stupidity. Please forgive me. I’ll do my best never to be that brainless again. I guess that’s all. Amen.
She wished a dove would fly down from heaven and let her know God had forgiven her. Of course, she knew that was not going to happen. But her words were the best she could do in the way of a confession. The hymn “Amazing Grace” from Grandpa Roarke’s funeral came back to mind. She hadn’t believed that he was a wretch in need of salvation, but that was exactly how she felt right now. How did one stop the overwhelming wave after wave of guilt?
“Hello,” a little woman in white orthopedic shoes hailed her from the churchyard. “Can I help you?”
Leigh pulled herself together and walked toward the woman.
“Have you come to do some genealogical research?” the little gray bird of a woman asked.
“No, just needed to get out of the car for a few moments.”
“Our church dates from 1736. And keeping it and the cemetery in good repair is costly. Would you like a tour of the church? There is a box for donations next to the guest register.
Ah, a walk in the graveyard didn’t come free. Leigh put her hand in her pocket and drew out the change she had left from her morning phone calls. “Why don’t you put this in for me? I must be getting on.”
“Oh, thank you,” the woman called after her. “Have a nice day!”
Leigh wondered how many weeks, months, years would pass before she would “have a nice day” again.
After parking her car in a long-term lot across the river in New Jersey, she found a pay phone and called Nancy’s number again. On the very last ring, just as Leigh was about to hang up and look for a nearby hotel, Nancy’s breathless voice came on. “Hi! I heard the phone just as I was unlocking my door.”
“Hi, Nancy, this is Leigh Sinclair,” Leigh started, feeling more uncertain with each syllable. What if this woman didn’t even remember her? “We met in June—”
“Oh, the beautiful blonde. Hi. What’s going on?”
“I just got in, and I wondered if the offer to use your sleeper sofa was still—”
“Great! Can’t wait to see you.” Nancy gave Leigh the address and said to come over right away.
Leigh hailed a taxi, and in spite of the traffic, she soon stepped out of the cab in front of Nancy’s vintage apartment building in the Village. Just as she reached for the door to the vestibule, it burst open. “Hey! Great to see you!” Nancy crowed, looking as if Leigh were Stanley and she were Livingston. Leigh couldn’t help it. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away as she followed Nancy up the narrow staircase to the second story and into her apartment, which had obviously been decorated from thrift stores and sported rock band and travel posters on every wall.
“I only have one bedroom,” Nancy, with her long dark hair and denim bell-bottoms, filled her in. “And just a postage stamp of a kitchen and bath, but it works. How long will you be staying?”
The question yanked Leigh out of her misery and back into real life. “I’m going to look for a job. Can I stay during the job hunt? As soon as I have something, I’ll get my own place.”
“Sure,” Nancy agreed with easy humor, “I’ll love having you. With that long blonde hair, you’ll attract men like bees to honey and maybe I can commiserate with those you turn down.”
Leigh turned away, the horrifying events of this morning replaying in her mind, fiery remorse blistering her raw conscience. She couldn’t tell Nancy that. But how to explain her easy tears? “Maybe I should tell you that my fiance was… He died this spring.”
“Oh!” Nancy put an arm around her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“It’s okay.” Leigh made herself smile. “I’m… just not in the market for romance right now.” Or an affair with a married man.Suddenly she wished she’d screamed at Trent this morning, slapped his face, raged at him. But, of course, she’d been too numb to react at the time. Stupid little fool,she scolded herself. Stupid, naïve, little blonde fool.
“Sure.” Nancy snagged her denim shoulder bag from a faded chintz chair that didn’t match the crushed-velvet avocado-green sofa. “Let’s go get something to eat. I’m an awful cook.”
Leigh followed Nancy out the door, silently sighing with relief. She’d found a haven.
Since Leigh had finished her degree in English and journalism in California, she didn’t go to an employment agency, but instead to a career counselor—otherwise known as a “headhunter.” The day before, she’d filled out a long application that the agency would turn into a resume. Today she was keeping her appointment with the head “headhunter.” A tall, very business-major-looking man, he rose as she entered his compact office with its one small window. “Miss Sinclair.”
“Mr. Johnson.” Leigh shook his hand and took the seat in front of his desk.
“You have quite an impressive list of credits for your writing. You’re interested in finding a job with a newspaper or magazine, I see.”
“Yes, since I finished school,” Leigh recited the phrases she’d rehearsed mentally, “I’ve lived with an elderly aunt in San Francisco and have done—”
“Quite a bit of freelance writing there.” He looked up from the paper and stared at her.
She waited for him to go on, but he continued to stare at her. Finally, it began to make her uncomfortable. If he made a pass at her, she’d throw something at him. She prompted, “Mr. Johnson?”
He grinned. “I was just thinking that now that I’ve seen you, I would suggest that you make a career change. You could make much more as a model. My wife runs a modeling agency. Perhaps you would like to go there and—”
“No.” Leigh held up her hand. “I’m not interested in anything like that. I’m a writer, not a fashion model.”
“Well, you can make a living by writing, but you could make a fortune in modeling. Are you—”
Leigh slid forward on her seat. “Let me be very clear, Mr. Johnson. I came here for help with getting my resume in order,” she made her voice sharp and determined, “and to get a few interviews with papers and magazines. I am not interested in posing for a camera.” Grandma Chloe had been a model on Fifth Avenue in 1917, but that was when very few professions were open to women. Did this man actually expect her to turn her back on her education and model instead?
Mr. Johnson tapped her application on his desktop. “I see. In that case, I think our secretary has a rough draft of your resume done for you to approve, and I have three positions for which you can interview in the next few days. Is that satisfactory?”
“Yes, just what I expected.” She gave him a measured smile. After Trent Kinnard, she had no patience with meaningless flattery or men who used it. She wanted to write, and who cared what a writer looked like?
He pressed a button on his intercom, and within minutes his secretary brought in the typed pages of her resume. Leigh looked them over and gave her approval.
“Now,” Johnson proceeded, “one of the journals you’ll be interviewing with is pretty stodgy, so don’t wear a miniskirt to the interview.”
Leigh gave the man a long look. “Don’t worry. I know how to handle an interview.” But the first man who makes a pass at me will he in serious danger… .
Three days later, Leigh sat on a chair in an editor’s office. She’d worn a new gray pantsuit and had pulled her hair back into a low ponytail.
The woman editor glanced over her resume one more time and then looked up. “Your credentials are quite good. I see that you’ve been active in politics. What do you think of the Equal Rights Amendment?”
Leigh hadn’t really made a decision on the topic. It sounded good, but was it really? “I think American women have been held back for generations,” she said diplomatically. “And that isn’t right.”
The editor nodded. “You realize that we’ve only been in business a little over a year. I can’t promise you that we’ll stay in business.” She gave Leigh a tight smile. “Publishing magazines is a touchy, uncertain way to make money. We aren’t The Saturday Evening Post.”
“I know.”
“Okay, then. The job’s yours—if you want it.”
Sudden fear snaked through Leigh. She’d never worked a real job. She’d only done freelance assignments over the past few years. Was she smart enough to do this? After that awful morning in Baltimore, she’d begun doubting herself. But this job would mean that she’d have a reason for getting up every morning. “Yes, I want it.” And I’ll do a good job if it kills me.
Leigh sat across from Shirley Chisholm, the first female African-American congresswoman—the first also to receive delegate votes for president in this year’s presidential race—at her Brooklyn office. Leigh had just finished jotting down Ms. Chisholm’s reply to her last question. Leigh looked up. “I want to thank you again, Ms. Chisholm, for giving me this interview. The readers of Women Today are definitely interested in helping more women get into politics and into Congress.”
Ms. Chisholm stood up and offered her hand. “When you first walked in and I saw you, I wondered if this was going to be a fluff piece. But you really did your homework on what I’ve been trying to do down in Washington. I apologize for assuming that such a pretty girl couldn’t do a good job. I’m afraid all of us are guilty of judging by appearances at times.”
Leigh smiled, accustomed to this kind of conversation. Thanking her again, Leigh shook Ms. Chisholm’s hand and then left. She didn’t tell the woman that in many ways, she’d reminded Leigh of Aunt Jerusha. What could Aunt Jerusha have accomplished if she’d been born a century later than she was?
At that, the germ of another article sprang to Leigh’s mind. Maybe she could interview Minnie Dawson and put that very question to her. Perhaps she could contrast Minnie’s life with her mother, Jerusha’s.
In the outer office, she sat down and took time to jot down this idea and then she stood up quickly. For a moment, everything wavered around her and she sat back down.
“Are you all right?” the secretary asked.
She couldn’t say, “I think I’m coming down with the flu”—not after just meeting with the congress woman. “No. Just all the holiday activities. I haven’t been getting enough sleep and haven’t eaten lunch today. Merry Christmas!”
The secretary wished her the same, and Leigh took the elevator down to the street, where she spotted a sign: “Women’s Clinic. Walk-Ins Welcome.”
Without any further thought, she entered the door. After a twenty-minute wait, she was ushered into a cubicle, and within another few minutes, she was joined by a woman doctor, the first she’d ever seen. “I hear you think you are coming down with the flu and don’t want to take it home with you for Christmas.”
“Yes, if I’m really going to be ill, I’ll just stay here. My grandmother and great-aunt are in their seventies. I don’t want to infect them with anything.”
“Very thoughtful of you.” The doctor shook down a thermometer and slipped it into Leigh’s mouth, and then while waiting, took her pulse and blood pressure.
“The flu has already hit here, or my nurse would be doing this. It’s slowed me down today.” She slipped the thermometer out and read it. “Your temperature isn’t elevated. What are your symptoms?”
“I’m lightheaded sometimes when I stand up too fast. I felt a bit queasy in the mornings over the past week and also sometimes when I pass a restaurant or sandwich shop and smell the food aromas.”
“When was the first day of your last period?”
Leigh gave the doctor a look. What has that got to do with the flu?But it was just easier to give her the information. She thought it over. “My last period was in late October.” Her own words surprised her a bit.
“Is it usual for you to miss a month?”
“No, I’m as regular as clockwork.” Apprehension buzzed inside Leigh.
“Your symptoms sound like pregnancy. Do you think you could be pregnant?”
Now shock burned through Leigh. Oh, no. I never gave that a thought. Am I insane or just totally brain-dead stupid? “Yes, I could be.” Each word she spoke swung back and hit her like a hammer stroke.
“Why don’t you give me a urine sample,” the doctor went on matter-of-factly, “and we can know by tomorrow if you are.
Leigh nodded and somehow made it through the rest of the appointment. She promised to call back after 1:00 p.m. the following day.
Outside again, she stood looking around as if she didn’t know where she was or what she had planned. Finally, it came to her. She needed to go back to her office and begin writing up the article while the interview was still fresh in her mind. But would she be able to put a word down? Pregnant, no, please, no.
The next day, she stayed home from the office. She’d just rented the apartment above Nancy’s, but she couldn’t move in until the first of January. She sat on Nancy’s green sofa beside the phone. On the TV, Concentration was on. She watched the players but couldn’t compete along with them today. It was as if her mind had taken a vacation. Brain failure must have started yesterday after visiting the clinic. This morning, she’d reread what she’d written yesterday afternoon and had ended by tearing it up.
Finally, the clock ticked over to 1:01 p.m. She dialed the clinic and asked about her test.
The receptionist transferred the call to the doctor from yesterday. “Miss Sinclair?”
“Yes?” Leigh’s voice sounded like a croak. She cleared her throat. “Have you gotten back the test results yet?”
“Yes, you are pregnant.”
Yes, you are pregnant.With those four words, Leigh’s world tilted on its axis.
“Miss Sinclair?”
Leigh suppressed the urge to retch. “Yes?”
“You will be due early in August. You should see an obstetrician and begin prenatal visits so you have a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby.”
A healthy baby. “Yes.”
“Would you like to come and see me about your options?”
I’m pregnant, and Trent’s married. “My options?” She tried to focus on the conversation.
“Well, I want to caution you about the risks of backstreet abortions. If this child is coming at a bad time for you, or if you and the father aren’t planning on marriage…”
Her mind repeated, “… a had time for you, or if you and the father aren’t planning on marriage…” Marriage. Oh, no.
“There is always the option of adoption,” the doctor went on as if discussing the weather. “There are many, many couples looking to adopt—”
“Thank you.” Unable to bear speaking about it one more second, Leigh hung up. She slumped as if boneless onto the sofa and lay there looking up at the ceiling. This can’t he real. I can’t he pregnant. I was only with him one time.
Her conscience taunted her in a smug tone, “It only takes one time.”
She’d just begun to move on with her career, with her life, to put the one-night affair behind her…
Her conscience sprang up to accuse her, “Make that your one-night stand.”
In pain and utter humiliation, Leigh closed her eyes. She’d been so naïve she hadn’t even thought about birth control and Trent must have assumed she was on the pill—like all his other women. The thought was a stinging lash to her heart. Pregnant. I thought no one would ever have to know. What do I do now?