A Self-Made Man (18 page)

It wasn't a long kiss, or a demanding one. But it was enough to send little electric shimmers of light through her body. As he pulled away, she touched her lips, feeling the last of the shimmers die away slowly.

“What was that for?”

He smiled. “Actually,” he said, “I don't really know. Did you mind?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It makes no sense at all, but no. I didn't mind.”

After that, they stood without speaking for a few minutes, watching as the long, skinny fingernail of land came closer, looming larger on the horizon. The boat began to slow.

“I want to apologize for Friday night,” she said abruptly. She'd been trying to say this all day long, but she hadn't been able to find an opening. It had been as if they'd made an unspoken pact to keep the day peaceful, and she hadn't known how to break it.

“Don't be silly,” he said. “No apology is necessary.”

“But all that weeping. I honestly don't know what got into me. I think maybe I was just terribly tired.”

“I'm sure you were. You'd been worried about
Tilly. And of course you've been working very hard to meet the goal for the neonatal wing.”

She cringed inwardly at the mention of the fund-raising. “That's another thing. I should have thanked you long ago for your incredibly generous donation. I feel rather uncomfortable about it, actually. I know that the…unresolved issues between us were driving that donation, and I wish I hadn't accepted it. But I've already reported it to the foundation, and now I don't see how—”

“Relax, Lacy,” he said. “It's okay. I am glad I wrote that check.”

“But I shouldn't let our personal situation get mixed up with business, and—”

“You know, if I feel I got my money's worth, I don't see why you should continue to agonize over it like this. Didn't you tell me that you're much too tough to indulge in unnecessary angst?”

“Yes, but…” She shook her head helplessly. “I would have said I was too tough to break down the way I did Friday night, too. Or even that…that episode out at the beach. Or the kiss just now.” She twisted her wedding ring on her finger, trying to get it to a comfortable spot. “In a way, it's a little frightening. It's as if I hardly recognize myself anymore.”

He caught her gaze and held it.

“But I do, Lacy,” he said slowly. “For the first time in a long time, I recognize you.”

She gripped the rail harder as the ferry lurched into its moorings. The water beneath them boiled and rocked, upset by the sudden jarring of boat and dock.
She had to close her eyes against the dizziness of interrupted rhythms.

“Yes,” she acknowledged, for what was the point in denying it? “But that may be what scares me most of all.”

N
OW THAT THE BORING
struggle of raising money was over, it seemed as if the entire island was excited about the neonatal unit.

Or maybe they were just excited about the upcoming gala family day, which the hospital's board of directors had decided to host in celebration of the successful fund-raising campaign. It would be held at the local amusement park, which dated back to 1924 and had been recently renovated by the historical society.

It would be the first time the amusement park had been open in fifty years. People who had dodged Lacy's fund-raising efforts for months were suddenly calling, volunteering to host booths, bring food, or tack posters around town.

Three radio shows, two TV stations and the local newspaper were all planning to run stories on the event. The baby boutique on Main had offered to be a sponsor, and so had the biggest pediatric group in town, the local toy store and even Tina Seville's preschool, which was so elite that one of their diplomas cost more than most BAs these days.

So when the telephone rang again, Lacy assumed it was another reporter, or another sponsor looking to
get in on the action. She smiled wryly. If only it had been this easy to get everyone's attention back when they had needed money!

She picked up the telephone with two fingers. She was making deviled eggs for the celebration, and her hands were messy with mayonnaise.

But it wasn't a reporter. It was Adam.

“Hi,” he said, and just that one syllable made the tips of her ears tingle. She hadn't talked to him since the day they'd gone to Boston—five whole days ago. Funny how, after doing just fine for ten years without hearing his voice, suddenly five days seemed like an eternity.

But that one little kiss had been strangely addictive. She kept reliving the sweet shimmers it had sent through her. And she knew she wanted more.

“Hi, yourself.” She heard the girlish note in her voice, and she hated it. She wasn't a girl. She was a twenty-eight-year-old widow. If she weren't careful, pretty soon she'd be wearing baby-doll minidresses and pigtails, and flirting with teenaged boys, the way Mary Lou Geiger did at the burger joint.

“I was just calling to see if you could use any help getting ready for Saturday.” He was smiling—she could hear it in his voice. She could picture the smile exactly. One side of his mouth cocked slightly higher than the other, notching his cheek and making tiny laugh lines radiate almost invisibly around his eyes.

“Thanks,” she said, “but I think I'm fine. No crises yet, thank heavens.”

“No pastry swans? I make a mean pastry swan.”

“So I hear.” She licked the mayonnaise from her
index finger and rotated the telephone to a more comfortable spot. “But the food for this event is a lot simpler. And most of it's being donated.”

“Okay. But I'm also calling to see if you'll do me a favor.”

“I'd be glad to.” She spooned the egg mixture into the cookie shooter—a secret Tilly had taught her years ago—and attached the small star nozzle. It made the prettiest deviled eggs, each shaped like a little yellow sunburst. “I certainly owe you one. What do you need?”

“A date.”

She laughed, but something nervous danced briefly against her heart. She squeezed the cookie shooter so hard the egg mixture poured all over the plate.

She began spooning it up hastily. “You don't need anyone's help to get a date, silly. Jennifer Lansing has herself gift-wrapped daily and delivered to your door. And I've heard that the Cartwright has become
the
most popular lunching spot for the Junior League. And there's this sudden new interest in golf—”

“Lacy.” His voice was still smiling. “I don't need you to
arrange
my date. I need you to
be
my date.”

“Oh.” She held onto the cookie shooter, trying not to grin. It was stupid to be so pleased. Much smarter would be to say no.
No, no, no.
“For what?”

“For Saturday.”

“Oh, I'll be there all day,” she said, stalling. “You won't be able to miss me.”

“Not good enough. I must have a date. There's nothing more pitiful than going to an amusement park alone. Who will tell me I'm brilliant when I shoot
down all the ducks? Who will console me when I can't toss the ring around the bottle? Who will be my valiant protector on the Ferris wheel?”

She laughed. “You know it would be the other way around. I'm terrified of heights.”

“Yes,” he said. “I do know. And that's why I want you to be my date. As I recall, protecting you on the Ferris wheel was one of the easiest jobs I ever had.”

Memories spun around in her mind, little breathtaking pictures of colored lights, swirling treetops, cold wind and warm arms.
Say no,
her cautious training ordered her.
Just open your mouth and say no.

“All right,” she said. “But I make no promises about the Ferris wheel.”

She had barely hung up the telephone when she heard the front door slam. Not just an accidental, whoops-the-door-slipped noise. This was a deliberate, furious explosion of wood that made the whole house shake.

Gwen was home. Passing through the foyer, she cast one dark, furious look toward the kitchen, and then, with a low, inarticulate cry, she turned away. She thundered up the stairs and disappeared into her room, slamming that door, too, with equal force.

Calmly, Lacy made another deviled egg star. And then another. She'd had years of Gwen's tempers, and she had long ago learned to ignore them. Eventually it would pass. Gwen would never tell her what had happened, and Lacy would never ask.

But after a few minutes her rhythm with the cookie
shooter faltered. She stared out the window, oddly uncomfortable.

Somehow, today, the well-rehearsed roles of hostility and indifference didn't seem right. With a sudden insight, she recognized for the first time that she
wasn't
indifferent. She had just pretended to be—out of cowardice, out of confusion, out of fear that she had no idea how to be a mother to this troubled teen. It was easier to be a stranger.

But, however they might play at it, she and Gwen weren't strangers rooming in the same boarding house. They were family, of sorts. And what kind of family would ignore the grief and fury Lacy had just now seen on Gwen's face?

The answer was obvious.

Malcolm's kind.

But Lacy wasn't Malcolm's kind. And neither, poor child, was Gwen.

Lacy set down the egg mixture and wiped her hands. Gwen needed her. Well, she needed someone, anyhow—and Lacy was the only one in the house. That degree of storming around was a message. Maybe all her life Gwen had been slamming doors because she needed rather desperately to say something that was very difficult to articulate.

If Lacy went up there right now, a fight was almost inevitable. Gwen would probably rebuff Lacy's questions, rudely reject her concern. But at least she would know that Lacy had heard—heard both the slamming door and the message that lay behind it.

And she would know that Lacy, who was, after all, her only remaining family,
cared.

Lacy went up the stairs softly and knocked on the closed door. “May I come in?” There was no answer. The door wasn't locked, so she turned the handle carefully. “Gwen? Are you all right?”

Her back rigid against the headboard, Gwen sat cross-legged on the bed, her pillow bunched up in her lap. Her face was streaming with tears.

For a minute, Lacy hardly recognized her. It wasn't merely the distortion of the weeping. It was everything.

Gwen wore pink. Not electric pink, not streetwalker pink, not drunken rose pink. Just pink. The dress was strangely sedate, with small white buttons from neck to hem, and puffed sleeves that reached below her elbows. A good girl's dress, the kind of dress you wore to meet your fiancé's grandmother.

And her hair was demure, too, confined by a white ribbon into some semblance of a braid. Lacy glanced down. Flat white pumps. And panty hose.
Good God.
Where on earth had Gwen been, Lacy wondered, costumed like a Pringle Island debutante?

“What's the matter?” She didn't advance into the room. Better to take it one step at a time. She could tell that Gwen was shocked to see her there at all.

“What the hell do you care?” Gwen pushed her fists into her pillow and fought back more tears. “Just get out of my room.”

Lacy held her ground. She hadn't expected it to be easy.

“Is there anything I could do to help?”

Gwen laughed, but the sound was strange, as if it had been grafted onto a sob. “Oh, I think you've done
plenty, Stepmother dear. Just plenty.” She glared at Lacy wetly. “Tell me, when you were trashing me to Tina Seville, did you already know I was going in for an interview? Did you do it just to make sure I wouldn't get hired—or did you do it just for kicks?”

Lacy didn't answer at first. Too many landmines lurked in those sentences. She had to pick her way across the message first, trying to find them all. Apparently Gwen had tried to get a job at Tina Seville's preschool. That was surprising all on its own. Except for her summer stint as a part-time swim instructor at the Cartwright, on the rare occasions that Gwen looked for work, she always looked
off
the island.

But there was more. Apparently, Tina had reported something Lacy had said, something negative about Gwen…

Lacy's face flushed. She remembered calling Tina last week, trying to smooth the older woman's feathers about Gwen's behavior at the Seafood Stroll. What exactly had Lacy said? That Gwen was young—Lacy used that one often, aware that her own severe demeanor made most people forget there was only a five year difference between Lacy and Gwen.

And she might have agreed that Malcolm would not have approved. She remembered Tina calling Gwen a strumpet, and Lacy had only mildly demurred, her thoughts on the check Tina had promised to write.

Lacy was suddenly intensely ashamed. She should have boxed Tina Seville's ears, not poured honey into them. And all for a check. Thirty pieces of silver…

“At least you have the grace to look embarrassed,”
Gwen said bitterly. “Not that it will do any good now. Tina Seville said she wouldn't hire me if I were the last applicant on Pringle Island. She could never consider hiring any girl whose own stepmother believes she is a strumpet.”

Lacy considered defending herself. She hadn't said that—Tina had. But what difference did it make, really? Morally, she was guilty. She had allowed Tina to say it in her presence. She hadn't leaped to Gwen's defense, although she knew full well that Gwen had done nothing wicked.

Gwen had kissed Teddy Kilgore a few times in public, injected a few blatantly sensual moves into their dancing. Once, obviously just to annoy Tina, Gwen had winked over her shoulder at Dalton Seville and tossed a sexually exaggerated, full-lipped pucker his way.

A few moments of sophomoric mischief. But without a doubt entirely innocent. Only someone as chronically uptight as Tina would give a damn about any of it.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I had no idea you were thinking of applying at her preschool. And honestly, I'm quite surprised. Of all the places you might work, that would be the most—”

“Inferior?” Gwen made a furious sound and stabbed at her pillow. “Beneath me? Just a teacher's assistant? With my background, my breeding, my
potential?
God, you're such a snob, Lacy. You're just like my father.”

Lacy frowned. “Don't put words into my mouth. I wasn't going to say any of that. I was just going to
say that it seemed like a bad fit. Tina's preschool is filled with the children of the same stuffy, snobbish social climbers you have always said you hated.”

“I don't care about their parents,” Gwen said defiantly. “It's the kids who matter. You wouldn't understand about that, because you hate kids. You don't know a damn thing about them. You never have.”

“I'm sorry,” Lacy said again, nearly defeated by this impenetrable wall of resentment. And by the fact that Gwen was right. Lacy
didn't
understand kids. She had always told herself it was because she'd been denied the chance to learn. But now she realized that had just been a rationalization. Her chance had been right here in the house.

Gwen had been her chance, and she had let it slip through her fingers.

“I wish I could pay you back for this,” Gwen said now, blackly. “I wish I could spoil some dream of yours, just so you'd know how it feels. But I can't, can I? Because you don't have dreams. All you care about is money, and status, and being the most perfect little priss on this pissant island.”

“Gwen—”

“Get out,” Gwen said, her voice once again tight with tears. “Get out of my room, and don't ever come in here again.”

She meant it, that was clear. She hated Lacy. She had no desire to be “heard” any further. Lacy moved back a step, as if the force of that hatred had a physical energy.

She paused one last time before completely closing the door.

“I truly am very sorry,” she said again. “I honestly had no idea you wanted to work for Tina.”

“But I did.” With a low, painful moan, Gwen buried her face in the pillow. “That's how big a fool I am.
I did.
”

 

A
LL AFTERNOON
S
ATURDAY
, Lacy kept watching for Gwen, hoping she might show up. From the moment the amusement park opened at noon, Pringle Island society and tourists came streaming through the turn-stiles, hand in hand with their children, their boyfriends, or their brothers, eager for some good old-fashioned fun. From her position as ticket taker at the merry-go-round, Lacy saw almost everyone she knew.

Everyone but Gwen.

Finally Lacy gave up. Apparently Gwen's fury had not subsided. She'd just have to think of some other way to make amends. Maybe by tomorrow Gwen would have cooled down enough to listen to reason.