Love Has The Best Intentions (9 page)

My turn to repay his kindness had come when
his father was stricken with a fatal heart attack. I drove Andrew
to the airport on a Sunday evening, listening quietly to his
rambling discourse on his relationship with his father and the
agonized self-examination as to why he hadn’t been there when it
happened. Just before boarding the plane, Andrew turned back and
enfolded me in a close embrace, squeezing my breath out with the
strength of his feelings.

I could never forget the good times: picnics,
rides in the country, sitting by the fire watching the light play
on his reddish hair, exploring our differing views and opinions
with a passion. We had sipped together from the mixture of the joy
and pain which made up the potion of love, both ingredients
inexorably intertwined. We had a powerful bond between us—one that
was mysterious, priceless, timeless. Why then was I still
afraid?

“Case of Chapin v. Chapin,” the clarion voice
of the bailiff jerked me back to the present and the cold
somberness of the courtroom. I became aware that Mrs. Chapin was
gripping the back of the seat in front of them with white knuckled
hands. Mr. Chapin and Andrew emerged from the crowd with
deliberation and took their places at the neighboring counsel
table, Mr. Chapin regarding his wife with sad resignation.

The judge rubbed the bridge of his nose
wearily before replacing his glasses and picking up the court
file.

“Is counsel ready?” He glanced wistfully at
the clock in the rear of the courtroom as he spoke, hoping that it
was time to adjourn.

As attorney for the petitioner, it was up to
me to start the proceedings. Before I could speak, however, a sob
burst from Dorothea Chapin, the pent-up emotions breaking
through.

“No! I’ve changed my mind! I don’t want a
divorce!”

The murmur of conversation from the
spectators and attorneys present in the courtroom stilled as the
echoes of a woman’s passionate declaration hung quivering in the
air.

Andrew and I remained frozen in disbelief, my
weakening knees forcing me to grip the edge of the counsel table
for support. Mr. Chapin dodged around the massive form of his
attorney and hurried to his spouse, words tumbling out in a rush of
excitement.

“Do you mean it, Dorothea? If you’ll come
back to me, I promise I’ll try to give you the happiness you
deserve. I love you! If you want to take classes at the University,
get a job, do more entertaining or travel, it’s all right with me.
I’m lost without you, darling—I can’t find a matched pair of socks
or figure how to work the dishwasher. I’m so lonely, Dorothea. I
want our marriage to stay intact!”

“I do love you, darling, but you’ve been so
cold and indifferent lately. I don’t want expensive presents—I want
you! You’ve been working these extra hours and I didn’t feel like I
was important any more...”

A man of action, Mr. Chapin cut this tearful
disclosure short by seizing his wife and pulling her against his
chest in a might embrace.

The judge raised silver brows, bemused by the
tender scene being enacted before the bench. The wooden countenance
of the bailiff, however, never changed expression as he inquired as
to whether I wished to dismiss the case?

Half an hour later, the newly reunited Mr.
and Mrs. Chapin departed the scene without a backwards glance or a
word of farewell. Andrew and I took our refuge in a deserted
conference room to close the file.

“Bill will never assign another case to me
again,” Andrew chuckled, loosening his tie. “We lost our fee for
the court appearance and I just stood there with my jaw hanging
down to my chest!”

“I hope they follow up with some type of
professional counselling,” I murmured. Andrew’s presence seemed to
fill the tiny room, confusing me with his nearness. I babbled on.
“I could tell she was reconsidering. Sometimes the process moves
along so fast that the client is unable to think, unable to realize
what they have committed themselves to do.”

Andrew dropped the slim case folder of the
Chapins’ marital discord on the table and moved a step closer. I
was trembling inside. The shadow of the unanswered proposal hovered
between us as the only barrier.

My thoughts in a turmoil, I backed away. I
felt compelled to speak—to slice through the glossy façade of the
professional relationship to which we still clung.

“Let’s forget about the Chapins. I want to
talk about us.”

Andrew’s eyes were dark with suppressed
emotion; I could sense that he was reaching out to me but I still
fought for freedom.

“I’m not ready to give you an answer yet. I
need more time!”

Andrew tried to speak, but I stopped him with
a light touch on his lips. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for such a
change in our relationship. I don’t want what happened to the
Chapins to tear us apart! I’ve seen it happen. I couldn’t bear the
agony of losing you, my teddy bear.” I tried to laugh at the
involuntary pun but tears filled my eyes.

With compassion, he placed gentle hands on my
shoulders. I bit back a sob of indecision at the warmth generated
by his touch and gazed despairingly at one of the buttons on his
suit coat. If only he’d get angry, roar, break the tension somehow.
Why didn’t he say something?

A firm hand lifted my chin to meet his eyes
and he spoke quietly and sincerely. “Allyson, honey, listen to
yourself. You want us to draw up a formal contract, a guarantee
that our marriage won’t fail. Love doesn’t bring a guarantee. It
brings a commitment. When I repeat the words “for richer, for
poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part”, it will
be a vow. You have to accept my word. That’s where the trust comes
into being. Love and trust are the only basis for a good, lasting
marriage. There must be a commitment between two people. I can’t
make the commitment on your behalf, sweetheart. I can only offer
you mine.”

The last brick in the barrier I had built to
protect myself from pain crumbled at his words. My course seemed
blindingly clear; it was as though the sun had suddenly broken
through dark clouds with radiant light.

“I love you, Teddy Bear. I will accept your
love, your trust and I give you my heart in return,” I
whispered.

He took me in his arms and I raised my face
for his kiss. The verdict was in; both parties were satisfied with
the result.

Another attorney flung open the door and we
exploded into helpless laughter, clinging to one another, and
overheard this comment as he slammed it shut.

“We’ll have to find an empty room,” he
grumbled to an unseen client. “There’s another reconciliation going
on in there. People forget that this is supposed to be a divorce
court!”

THE END

Honey, Do You
Love Me?

“Don’t let Sandi run amuck.” Rachel brushed
with a weary hand at a curl which promptly sprang back across her
left eye.

My niece giggled, alert to the sound of an
unfamiliar word, perhaps picturing mud pies and splashy puddles,
and skipped down the walkway to the car.

“I’ll keep her on a tight leash,” I promised
my sister.

Rachel nodded, patting her swollen stomach in
the absent-minded manner of a woman coming to the end of her term,
surprised afresh by her girth and yet, at the same time, reassured
that the baby still moved within its dark, private place.

I could bear to watch no longer. “Stay off
your feet while we’re gone. Rest, woman! That’s the whole point of
this expedition.”

Tugging on the handle of the passenger door,
Sandi’s dancing feet embodied the impatience of four years young
with the tardiness of her elders. “Come on, Aunt Claire!”

My sister grasped my arm. “You all right? Not
still brooding about—”

“I’m simply wondering what I’m going to feed
the munchkin for lunch. That’s all that’s on my mind.” I forced a
bright smile which wouldn’t have fooled Sandi and freed myself.
“Got to run before she yanks the door off my car.”

Once we were on our way, Sandi chatted
unself-consciously, her shrill, piping voice competing with the
sounds of Saturday morning traffic until she discovered the radio
scan button.

Vintage Motown, rock, rap, and country
western, spurted out of the speakers until I switched off the
radio. Realized that I preferred the discordant blare over
treacle-thick silence.

Bored, my niece appropriated the sunglasses
I’d placed on the dash after the sun disappeared behind a
cloud.

Perching them on her snub nose, she demanded,
“How do I look?”

Her pert tone and confidently uptilted chin
proclaimed a conviction that she had been transformed into someone
stunning and grown-up. The dark lenses dominated her features,
concealing childishly rounded cheeks and huge brown eyes. Strangers
frequently mistook Sandi for my own daughter on our frequent
outings together. “How sweet! She has your eyes!”

Not today. Mine were red and swollen from
crying; the glasses Sandi modeled had been useful earlier in
disguising the puffiness when facing my sister.

“You look glamorous. Tres chic,
mademoiselle!”

Sandi beamed and the glasses slipped off her
nose and tumbled into her lap. I forced an answering smile, my
shield of cheerful composure holed by pinpricks of pain.

But the release of tears must be denied until
I was once more alone in my apartment, that cavern of loneliness
haunted by angry voices and the ghost of a woman sobbing over a
stained tablecloth and guttered candles. Party favors from an
intimate supper turned into a dreadful parting repast.

“Stop wallowing in self-pity”, I chastised
myself in disgust. “You’ll never be able to climb out of the mire
if you continue to dwell on those memories...”

But Ken’s clipped voice overrode Sandi’s
chirping song. “You’re an adult, Claire. I thought you always took
precautions.”

Precautions? Instantly, I was back in the
dining room chair facing Ken, the meal prepared with such tender
anticipation churning in my stomach. My lover had chosen to accuse
me of carelessness, his reaction peevish, as though I’d forgotten
the mosquito repellant on a camping trip.

Candle flames cast unfriendly shadows across
the cheekbones which my fingertips ached to caress. The food set on
the neutral zone of the table which separated us had been prepared
with love and nervous expectation. I’d left work three hours early
to bake Ken’s favorite cherry dessert.

Reflected flames glowed in the eyes which
locked onto mine like a target sight. I wondered briefly why I’d
always regarded candlelight as romantic.

When Ken spoke again, his tone shifted to
relief. “At least this isn’t a big deal.”

At my sharp, indrawn breath, he frowned in
quick rebuke. “Unless you’re foolish enough to think about keeping
it.”

I stiffened in involuntary protest of the
pronoun. It? His casual tone might refer to a pencil rolled under
the table or a quarter discovered on the sidewalk. Not our child.
He was dismissing something forged on the white hot anvil of our
love without a second thought.

“I didn’t want to consider adoption until
we’d had a chance to talk about this—”

“Get rid of it. Now.” Ken’s voice was flat as
the champagne in my glass.

I’d bought the champagne for a celebration,
our celebration. My dinner companion raised his glass of wine and
took a noisy sip, the omission of a toast deliberate and cruel. To
us?

My mouth dried as the strong fingers which
knew my pleasure zones so intimately gripped his glass in a
stranglehold, betraying the tension he refused to allow into his
voice.

I swallowed the lump formed from unshed
tears. “What if I don’t?”

The slender stem of the glass snapped like a
fragile bone and I recoiled from the sound. Ken moved his hand in
an angry arc and the wine bottle he’d insisted on uncorking before
dinner tipped over and passion red, blood red liquid flowed across
my best linen tablecloth.

His temper escaped, mimicking the wine’s
eager flight, spread out to engulf me. “We can’t put our lives on
hold, Claire. Not when our relationship is based on freedom, the
enjoyment of our sexuality—living life to the fullest! I refuse to
be trapped into pushing a designer stroller around the mall.”

The bitter set of his mouth betrayed that
this last hurtful thrust was intentional. We’d met at a shopping
mall nearly six months earlier, exchanging names over fat, salty
pretzels. He carried a shopping bag full of black socks with the
aplomb of a diamond courier.

“I’m a fanatic about the quality of my
socks.” Ken’s tongue flicked out to lick the salt from the dough’s
yielding surface. “And my women.”

His smile was heart-stopping, darting into
the inner core of my being and expanding until it left a void only
his love-making could fill.

That smile was nowhere in evidence now and I
resented his scornful reference to the site of our first meeting, a
place that until tonight I still thought of as magical.

“This is our baby we’re discussing, not a bad
spot in an apple to be dug out and thrown away!”

The candles sputtered in derisive response to
my passion. Drops of wax burned like hot tears on the back of the
hand I extended across the table to Ken.

“Touch me, darling,” I pleaded. “Hold me
close again, tell me you love me. Tell me that everything will be
all right.”

Instead, he pulled away, as if I’d jabbed him
with my fork. “I can’t make love to a woman with a belly like a
sack of potatoes. I don’t want a brat whining for attention. Make
your choice, Claire. You can have the baby—or you can have me.”

* * * *

Once in the department store, Sandi had a
difficult time choosing a toy. The visual testimony of my dilemma
concealed again behind the dark glasses, I watched my niece sort
through a selection of plastic balls.