A Self-Made Man (16 page)

“If you persuade yourself long enough,” she said slowly, “there ceases to be any difference between the two.”

 

A
PPARENTLY NOTHING VERY
interesting happened on Pringle Island on a summer Friday night. A small cigarette fire in a trash can in an unoccupied wing of Pringle Island General Hospital had brought out every journalist in town.

Adam stood by and watched Lacy's first two interviews, admiring her adroit handling of the TV reporters and enjoying the sight of her beautiful face with the bright camera lights on it. But when the print media descended, determined to get to the bottom of what they were sure was a shameful scandal, Adam wandered off in search of the hospital vending machine.

It was half-empty, and he began to wish he had pocketed the rest of his filet, gravy and all. Cheezy Crunches, which seemed to be made of salted cardboard wrapped around orange lint, were a damn lousy substitute for perfectly grilled red meat.

He choked down two of them, then began lamenting the forfeit of that nice bottle of Chardonnay. Finally he ambled into Lacy's office and waited patiently—all right, almost patiently—on her sofa, reading a couple of full-color brochures that made the neonatal wing sound like the greatest thing to hit Pringle Island since refrigeration.

An hour later, she showed up at the door, looking drop-dead gorgeous in her silver dinner dress, with its low-cut neckline that was lined with tiny rhinestones. At least he assumed they were rhinestones. Malcolm hadn't been
that
rich, had he?

“I'm so sorry,” she said, coming in and kicking off her silver sandals wearily. “I had no idea there would be so many of them.”

“I've been fine,” he said. But, come to think of it, he did seem to spend a lot of time perusing her magazines while he waited for a chance to be with her. What exactly did that mean, he wondered? Then he
decided he didn't want to know. A man who had spent fifty thousand dollars for one dinner he didn't even get to eat—well, that was a man who needed to have his head examined.

“I've been looking at these brochures. They make the new wing sound so exciting I feel the urge to donate all over again.”

She chuckled, plopping down on the sofa beside him. “That's the general idea.” She leaned her head against the cushioned back and shut her eyes. “There's a pen on my desk. Feel free to use it.”

“No way.” He tried to make himself stop staring at her. But he'd been looking at dream pictures for so long. He couldn't help wanting to compare them to the reality. The smooth, pale column of her throat. The soft, downy curve of her cheek. The polished, intelligent brow. The full, sensual mouth, now tinted a very expensive peach. “I haven't gotten my money's worth for the first check yet.”

She opened her eyes slowly and caught him staring at her. He wondered what his expression must have been, because a sudden wariness tightened the muscles around her mouth.

She eased herself to an upright position. “Maybe you'd better tell me exactly what you think you bought with that check, Adam.”

He smiled. “I hear some of the old rooms are being converted as part of the new neonatal unit,” he said. “How about a tour?”

She looked at him closely, as if she mistrusted his motives, but he arranged his face as angelically as possible. He blinked innocently, and finally she
laughed. She was clearly thawing, he thought. The idea pleased him far more than it should have.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But I'm not putting my shoes back on. My feet are killing me.”

“What?” He reared back in horror. “The exquisitely groomed Mrs. Morgan walking barefoot through her kingdom? Letting the peons see her bare feet? Surely this is a first. Should we call back the press?”

“What nonsense,” she said, climbing up off the sofa with a little groan. “The new wing is completely empty. No one will see me.”

And so they wandered through half-darkened halls, her rhinestone neckline winking as they passed under the dim blue lights placed high above the doors. The place was eerily empty, just as she had predicted, just room after room of silent, gleaming sterility.

Finally she made one last turn, and they found themselves in a surprisingly chaotic area filled with ladders and drop cloths, tools and boards and brushes.

“A work in progress,” she said with a smile. She pitched her voice low, though they were clearly alone. “But there is one finished room, which we use to impress our best donors.”

He smiled. “That would be me, I suppose.”

Though she was turning away, he could see by the curve of her cheek that she was smiling, too. “Yes, Mr. Kendall. That would be you.”

She opened one of the doors that lined the corridor. She flicked a switch and turned on a small, soft-glow lamp beside a bed that didn't look at all like a piece of stereotypical hospital-issue equipment.

“This is one of our birthing rooms. If a mother is at risk in any significant way, she will deliver here, in close proximity to the neonatal equipment.”

“Nice,” he said. He went over and sat on the edge of the bed. It was wonderfully inviting, the sheets fine linen, the mattress firm but comfortable. On the far side of the bed sat a small rocking cradle. He touched it, and it swayed gently under his fingers. “All the comforts of home.”

“We hope so,” she said, looking around the room with an obvious sense of pride. “For many of these mothers, this will be a terrible time, a time of great fear. Some of them will be delivering prematurely. Others will be facing different complications. There are so many ways things can go wrong….”

She took a deep breath. “We can't work miracles. But we are hoping to help in any way we can.”

He followed her gaze, taking in the details, and he realized that her pride was well justified. The room was warm and cozy, completely nonthreatening. A comfortable chaise longue sat in the far corner, a place for concerned relatives to nap, or spend the night if necessary. But behind the little human touches, he could see that state-of-the-art hospital equipment had been tucked into every possible cranny.

This was not just a feel-good room, not just a room for impressing rich benefactors. It was a working room. A room for saving lives.

“You've done a wonderful job, Lacy,” he said sincerely. “It's going to be a very special place. I
wouldn't be surprised to find a miracle or two in here someday.”

But he wasn't sure she heard him. She was moving about the room restlessly, touching first one thing and then another, straightening the little bedside clock, adjusting the shade on the glowing lamp.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was muffled, and he couldn't quite read her tone. “I hope you're right.”

She was near him now, tugging at the lacy ruffle around the cradle as if she couldn't bear for it to be one millimeter askew. She touched the soft, tiny sheet with such tenderness that he felt impertinent just watching her, as if it were a violation of her most private thoughts.

Suddenly he realized that her eyes were shining in the lamplight. Her lips were held together tightly, as if closed over an unspeakable pain. At that moment, he felt as if the ten years between them no longer existed. Whatever caused it, her pain was his own. And he couldn't endure seeing her like this.

Impulsively he reached out and took her hand.

“Lacy,” he said with a sudden, insane flood of emotion. “I missed you. All these years… You know that, don't you? I missed you so much I thought I would die.”

Slowly she turned to face him. Two tears rolled down her cheeks, but her expression was still one of unfocused bemusement, as if she were lost in a world of her own.

“And I missed you.” She touched his face with an
indescribable sadness. “I missed you so much I
did
die.”

His insides twisted into a knot so cruel he almost groaned out loud.

“No, you didn't,” he said fiercely, pulling her hand closer. “Damn it, Lacy, you
didn't.
I know how to bring you back. Let me.”

Under the force of his grip, she lost her balance and dropped onto the bed beside him. She didn't protest as he took her slender, motionless body in his arms, folding her up against his chest.

“Please let me, Lacy. Let me show you the way back.”

He wasn't sure what exactly he intended to do. Did he think that sex was the answer—that a few hours of slow, patient lovemaking here on the bed of this strangely silent hospital birthing room would melt the ice in which she had encased herself for so many years?

Perhaps he was just crazy enough to do it. Ten years without her had starved him, made him reckless with desire.

But before he could even sort out his thoughts, he felt her shoulders begin to shudder.

“Adam,” she said hoarsely. She tried to pull away.

But he wouldn't let her. He held her close as another spasm moved through her, this one more violent, seeming to rend her with its merciless force.

“It's all right, Lacy,” he whispered. “Go ahead. Let go.”

She held back another second, maybe two. And then, with great, gulping sobs, as if she were a child
again, without the power of restraint, without any arts of self-protection, she began to cry.

He clutched her tightly, letting her flood his shirt. He stroked her damp hair. He whispered soft, meaningless noises.

It wasn't what he'd expected. But maybe, just maybe, it would do.

A
S SHE NEARED
the Cartwright Hotel's Olympic-size swimming pool, Gwen unbuttoned her yellow lace cover-up and tossed it over her shoulder rakishly. She looked like a million bucks in this swimsuit, and she wanted Travis to get the full effect.

But the annoying man wasn't even watching. Gwen was only about ten minutes late, but Travis was already in the pool, motoring some little kid around on a raft. She let out her chest-expanding lungful of air and scowled over at him. She was accustomed to a little more attention than this.

Actually, though, he looked kind of cute. His hair was wet and slicked back, showing off his great bone structure. And his bare, tanned shoulders were downright yummy.

She'd been focusing her attentions mainly on Travis—frankly she just didn't have the energy now to get into anything as mysterious and sticky as the Adam-Lacy thing. Besides, though Adam was a walking, talking hunk of sex appeal, he was kind of hard to get to know. Travis was much cozier.

Maybe in a little while she'd have to forgive him for not noticing her dynamite bikini.

“And the shark grabs hold of your raft. He's push
ing you out to sea!” Travis was making ridiculous growling noises—since when did sharks
growl?
—and scissoring his feet with great, dramatic splashes, thrilling the little girl, who was probably about six and still wore water wings.

Gwen's irritation evaporated. She dropped the cover-up, her orange towel and her fat romance novel on one of the deck chairs and walked over to the pool. She squatted, leaning over the coping.

“Excuse me? Mr. Shark? Remember me? I'm the girl you had a date with?”

He glanced her way, smiling delightedly.

“Ah! The shark sees a new victim! Miraculously, you are saved!” Travis grinned at the little girl, giving her raft an exciting, wake-producing shove, which made her squeal even louder. He turned, then, and began lumbering through the water toward Gwen, still in shark mode. When he reached the side, he put his hands up and grabbed her around the waist.

“Come, my pretty. Come live with me in the water and be my Shark Queen.”

She held back. “I don't want to be a shark. Too much work. They never sleep.”

He looked hurt. “But we have to be sharks. That's what DeeDee wants us to be. And we're officially her champions today, because her brothers are giving her a hard time about her water wings.”

She glanced over at the little girl, who was paddling furiously, obviously trying to get away from three preteenaged boys who were splashing her and calling out singsongy insults.

“That's DeeDee?”

Travis nodded. “And those are DeeDee's brothers. I call them Dum-Dum, Doo-Dah and Diddley-Squat. They're obnoxious as hell. They can't help it, of course. They're eleven, twelve and thirteen.”

Gwen sighed. “And how is it we come to know DeeDee?”

Travis grinned beguilingly. “I met her ten minutes ago. While I was waiting for you.”

“Oh, so now this is my fault?” But she looked over at DeeDee one more time. The little girl appeared absolutely miserable, her hair sticking to her flushed cheeks as she ducked the incessant splashes. Gwen squinted toward the three hooting, whistling young ruffians.

And she was hooked. Just as Travis had obviously known she would be. She took a deep breath. “Okay. Stand back, Mr. Shark. I can take care of this.”

She stalked over toward the boys. “Hey. You.”

They paused, stunned to see this blond lady in a million-dollar bikini talking to them. Gwen allowed herself a good internal chuckle, thinking that her bathing suit was turning out to be useful after all. The thirteen-year-old was actually blushing. He probably had a poster on his door of some actress in a bathing suit just like this.

He glanced around dubiously. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” She smiled. “I'm looking for someone to show my friend over there how to do a jackknife off the high dive. And when I saw you, I said, now there's a young man who could do it.” She let the smile broaden flirtatiously. “You can, can't you? I mean, you're not afraid or anything, are you?”

The kid was scared, all right. He was scared green. But his little brothers were giggling, poking him in the ribs, egging him on. And, nasty little bully that he was, he didn't even have the guts to admit he was a chicken.

“Sure,” he said, elbowing his brothers back angrily. “Shut up, you two. I can do it.”

But he couldn't. He got all the way to the edge of the board, took one long, shuddering look down the forty-two feet of empty air, and froze. He stood there forever, while his brothers called up taunts, trying to work up the guts. But finally he backed down the ladder, red-faced with shame.

Less than two minutes later, all three boys left the pool without another word, leaving their little sister to play peacefully under the benign eye of her parents, who had been comfortably buried in their novels and apparently unaware of the entire drama. Gwen strutted back to Travis, a smug smile on her face.

He was chuckling as he pulled himself out of the pool and began to dry himself off with a towel. “That was vicious,” he observed appreciatively. “Absolutely diabolical.”

She buffed her nails against her chest, then blew on them playfully. “Just a little something I picked up at boarding school,” she said modestly. “The theory is this. If you're getting picked on by a bunch of bullies, you find the biggest, ugliest bully of them all and you carve him up for luncheon meat. Suddenly everyone else just can't wait to leave you alone.”

He whistled. “Where'd you go to boarding school? Alcatraz?”

“Pretty close.” Gwen arranged herself on the deck chair, making sure all her curves were displayed to maximum advantage. “Daddy didn't much care where he sent me. He just didn't want to have an audience while he tried to thaw out his freeze-dried bride.”

Travis dropped onto the adjoining lounger. He cocked his head quizzically. “Lacy?”

Gwen put her sunglasses on—sometimes talking about all this made her eyes sting, and she wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea.

She nodded. “Yep. Lacy, the Lovely Lady of the Manor. She didn't want any little brats hanging around, either—especially not a brat who knew she wasn't really a lady at all. She was just one of the salesclerks from Daddy's five-and-dime, playing dress up.”

Travis didn't smile this time. His eyes darkened.

“That's kind of a crummy thing to say,” he observed quietly. “And you know, I wouldn't have pegged you for a snob.”

To her surprise, his gentle criticism hurt. Really hurt. She couldn't say why, actually. Ordinarily she considered her day a success if she had offended everyone in sight.

But Travis was different. He didn't seem to look at her as just a sexy chick, or as a rebellious hellion, or even as a royal screwup who would have been A Disappointment To Her Father. He didn't pigeonhole her at all. He just accepted who she was and seemed to like her anyhow.

She found that she wanted him to go on liking her.

“You're right,” she said finally. “I don't know why I said that. I don't really give a damn that she used to be poor. I don't even believe she married Daddy for his money. She spends almost nothing of what she inherited. It's just that—”

She stopped for a minute. She was about to say things she never said, even to herself. And she had no idea why.

“It's just that it would've really helped to have a friend in the house, you know?” She drew in a breath, and stared off into the middle distance. “I would have liked for her to like me. But she didn't. And she doesn't. And she never will.”

She finally faced Travis, whose expression was understanding without being sappy and sympathetic. “And that's that, I guess.” She shrugged. “No big deal.
C'est la vie,
right? I just wanted you to know it wasn't really about the money.”

“Okay. Clarification noted.” Travis smiled. “So. Want to be a teacher?”

The abrupt change of subject left her off-balance. She frowned. “What?”

“I said, want to be a teacher? The country club rec director is looking for someone to give swimming lessons to the little kids. I told him I thought you'd be great at it. He wants to interview you at three.”

She took off her sunglasses so that he could more clearly identify the intensity of the scowl she was giving him. “You've got a lot of nerve. You think you can arrange my career? First of all, buddy, you don't even really know me.”

He laughed and lay back on his lounger. Mad as
she was, she couldn't help noticing he had a fabulous body. “Oh, yes, I do,” he insisted. “You're Moira, with a pinch of Kelly, and a dash of Ellyn thrown in.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should stop grumbling and go to the interview.” He shut his eyes, still smiling. “It means, my belligerent blond bombshell, that you are a natural born teacher.”

 

L
ACY SIFTED
through the pile of catalogues on Tilly's bed, looking for the one on double-handled, chrome-plated faucets.

It was one o'clock Saturday afternoon, and Tilly had insisted on looking at the various options for upgraded faucets. The board of directors—of which Tilly was a member—would vote on Monday, and she wanted to be prepared. If Lacy hadn't brought them here to the Barnhardt house, Tilly would have dragged herself over to the hospital, though she wasn't anywhere near strong enough for the trip.

So of course Lacy had come, struggling up the stairs under an armload of plumbing catalogues.

Tilly Barnhardt was an infuriatingly stubborn woman, Lacy thought to herself now, as she handed the catalogue across the bed. But then, perhaps that was what kept her going. That indomitable will had overcome a great many challenges in the eighty-six years of Tilly's life. It just might get her through this new trouble, too.

“What are you smiling about?” Tilly fixed Lacy with a stern glare over her reading glasses. “And
what's wrong with you today, anyhow? You look different. You look…younger. Happier.” She smiled coyly. “Well—maybe I've answered my own question! Could this have anything to do with dinner at the Lost Horizon, by any chance?”

Lacy made a dismissive sound and looked back down at the paperwork. “Nonsense. I don't look one bit different today. You're making this up. You're just determined to believe that your matchmaking last night worked some kind of miracle.”

“Well, did it?”

Lacy tried to school her features into perfect normalcy. “No,” she said curtly. “No miracles.”

Tilly snorted. “Then why do you look like that?”

“Like
what?
” This was ridiculous. Tilly was just on a fishing expedition. She couldn't have any way of knowing that anything important had happened last night. She couldn't in a million years have guessed that Lacy had spent an hour weeping her heart out in Adam Kendall's arms.

And what had that meant, anyhow? She hadn't been able to cry over the baby in years now. But suddenly, in that room, with Adam by her side, the tragedy of the whole thing had overwhelmed her, and she had simply opened like a faucet.

He had been so kind. He hadn't even forced her to explain. He had simply absorbed the tears without question, comforting her without attaching any strings.

And somehow, when it was over, she had felt younger. Lighter. As if, in the old cliché, someone had taken a weight from her shoulders.

Tilly studied her face for several long seconds.

“Clean,” she said finally. “It's a funny word, but it's the right one. You look clean, the way the sky looks after a good storm.”

That was much too close to the truth. Lacy felt herself flushing. “Matilda Hortense Barnhardt, if you don't stop—”

“Knock, knock.” Adam appeared in the doorway, holding a bunch of yellow-faced daisies. “Am I interrupting?”

Tilly crowed with pleasure and held out her hands for the daisies, which were her favorite flower. “Not at all! I'm so glad you're here. Tell the truth, Adam. Doesn't Lacy look clean today?”

Adam smiled curiously over at Lacy, who buried her face in her hands, abandoning hope. “Why, yes,” he said, playing along, although he clearly had no idea what was going on. “She practically sparkles. Freshly waxed and lemony fresh, too, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Oh, you're no help.” Tilly handed the daisies to Lacy. “Go put these in some water, dear, would you please?”

Oh, no you don't, you old devil,
Lacy thought, giving Tilly a hard stare. She wasn't going to be shuffled out of the room so that Tilly could pump Adam for information about last night.

“I'll call the nurse,” she said sweetly. “She can do it. I need to get these catalogues put away.”

So the nurse came, the daisies departed, and Lacy busied herself at the edge of the room, letting Adam
and Tilly visit comfortably—but never quite giving Tilly enough freedom to say anything embarrassing.

Through it all, Lacy was acutely conscious of Adam's presence. He was dressed more casually than she had seen him before—and the sight of his familiar body in soft, well-worn jeans brought back a flood of memories.

For the first time, though, she didn't slam the door, shutting the memories out. She let a few, a very few, seep in through a small, tentative crack in her fortress. Remember the day he had bought ten packages of gum at Morgan's Five-and-Dime, paying for them one at a time, so that he could talk to her while she was working?

And the day she had picked him up at the concrete plant. The other guys had whistled at her, and some of them had come up to flirt. One young boy, observing Adam's scowl, had asked innocently, “What's the matter? Is she your girl?” Adam had growled back tersely, “That's right. Pass it around.”