Snowed (16 page)

First name: James. Middle name: Andrew. Mother: Antonia Ashton Bradburn. Father: James Andrew Bradburn. It was all there
—
hospital, attending physician, date of birth...

She closed her eyes and leaned against the file cabinet, listening to her pulse thunder in her ears. She took a deep breath and replaced the birth certificate, only then noticing a snapshot tucked into the same folder. She pulled it out and examined it.

She recognized Antonia Bradburn
—
a younger version of the woman whose portrait hung in the ballroom
—
wearing an exhausted smile, tucked into a hospital bed, cradling a yawning newborn infant with puffy eyes and a head full of black hair. On the back was written, “Antonia and James, Jr., one day old.”

Tears stung her eyes as bewilderment and pain threatened to overwhelm her. Why would he lie? Why
did
he lie? For surely this evidence was indisputable. James was her half brother. They’d committed
—

Abruptly, through the haze of tears now streaming down her face, she stuffed the picture back into the folder and slammed the cabinet shut. She tried to calm her sobs as she groped her way out of the office and down the hallway to her room. James’s room. The room she’d shared with him for eight weeks. The room where they’d made love countless times.

The horror of what she’d done was like an evil entity inside her, something dark and hideous that she couldn’t shake, would never be able to eradicate from her soul. It made no difference to her that the sin was unintentional. With self-disgust she realized that she’d unwittingly managed to live up to the ugliest caricature of a hillbilly, far worse than Mike Carleton’s most insulting parody could ever hope to be.

When she realized she was throwing her clothes into her suitcase, she paused and sat on the bed. Yes. She must leave. Now, while James was away. If she gave herself a chance to look into her half brother’s blue eyes once more, she didn’t know what she might say or do.

And he must never know. It was enough that she’d have to live forever with the knowledge of what they’d done. She wouldn’t put him through it as well.

But the question persisted: Why had he lied? She cradled her head with trembling fingers. Could he have despised his father enough to pretend
—
or perhaps even fool himself into believing
—
that he wasn’t the man’s natural son? Ultimately it made no difference why he’d lied. He had. The damage was done.

And to think she’d fantasized about having his children! The two of them had even talked about kids and child rearing, in a casual way, as if gauging each other’s feelings on the subject. Thank God she’d gone on the Pill. This disaster could have been so much worse.

Wearily she rose and made her way up the stairs to her office, where she picked up the phone and called the airline and the taxi service. Then she gathered up all her work papers and carried them back down to the bedroom. It was nearly six. If she hurried, she could slip out before he returned
—
slink out of Whitewood like a thief, she thought bitterly, just as her family had been forced to do twenty-four years before. Commanding herself not to think about it, she concentrated on stuffing her clothes and papers into her suitcase.

“What are you doing, Leah?”

Startled, she turned to see James in the doorway, a perplexed frown on his face. She turned back to her task with renewed intensity. “I have to leave. I already called a taxi.”

“What happened?” He crossed the room and touched her shoulder. “Is it your family?” he asked softly. “Did something happen to your mom or—”

She shook off the hand. “No. It’s not that. It’s...me. Us.” She latched the suitcase and forced herself to face him. “I won’t be coming back, James.”

He stood immobile. “Won’t be...? What are you talking about?” He caught her as she tried to pass him, yanking the suitcase out of her grasp and tossing it onto the bed. “What the hell’s going on here, Leah?” Bewilderment had turned into anger. “You were just going to sneak out without saying anything, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “It would’ve been better that way, believe me, James.”

He seized her shoulders. “Damn it, you’re going to tell me what got into you! I love you, in case you forgot.” His eyes flicked to the suitcase, his voice softening. “Is that what this is about? Are things just going too fast for you?”

She held the tears at bay with an effort, knowing there was only one way to make a clean break
—
and dreading it. She had to make him hate her again. Reluctantly she forced long-ago memories to the surface. His fierce scowl, firelight glittering in his icy eyes as he stared down at her in the Gold Room. A lifetime ago. What were his words?

You’re a lousy liar....I thought you were different.

“I deceived you, James. From the beginning.”

Abruptly he released her, his expression guarded, his voice low and measured. “What are you saying?”

She dragged in a deep breath. “I’m not the person you think I am. I...tricked Mike Carleton into bringing me here.” She had to turn away from the pain and confusion in his eyes.

“You told me that before. You did it so you could talk to someone, you said. An old boyfriend.”

“No. There was no boyfriend.”

“Then why?” It was a hoarse whisper. “Why did you come here?”

“I was after something.”

James’s agitated breathing filled the ensuing silence. Clearly he controlled his temper with an effort of will.

She said, “If it makes you feel better, I never did get what I came here for.”

“Which was...?” The voice was that of a stranger.

She turned to see him standing rigidly, his fists balled at his sides, his eyes like shards of blue glass.

“I can’t tell you that,” she whispered.

Every word she’d spoken was the truth. And she knew how he’d misconstrue that truth in his ignorance
—
how she needed him to misconstrue it. His words of that afternoon swam in her head.
I love you, Leah...Nothing that came before matters now.

I love you, too, James,
she thought miserably.
God, how I love you.

He opened his mouth to speak again, then seemed to think better of it. Stalking to the bed, he picked up her suitcase. “Perhaps I should check the contents,” he bit out, then turned and preceded her down the hallway. “Then again, whatever you took, you can just consider payment for services rendered.”

She forced herself to hold her head high and follow him downstairs, praying the flood of tears would hold off until she was out of the house. She smelled the enticing aroma of Mary’s beef Bourguignon and regretted not being able to say good-bye to the woman who’d become like a grandmother to her. That, she knew, was the least of the crippling regrets she’d have to live with for the rest of her life.

He set her suitcase down near the front door. “Don’t worry. I’ll never contact you,” he said, and walked away.

*

James didn’t consciously seek out his darkroom, yet that was where he found himself moments later, poring over contact sheets while struggling against the blistering reality of what had just happened. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d sought solace by totally immersing himself in his work.

Her words taunted him.
I’m not the person you think I am....I deceived you....I was after something...

He told himself that the Leah he knew
—
the loving, dependable, obstinate, and deliciously sensual creature he’d fallen in love with
—
could not have meant those words. Something had forced her to say them. But even as these thoughts crossed his mind, they were crowded out by an unbidden memory.

Renee.

It all came back to him in a sickening rush
—
his wife’s manipulation, her deceit, her treachery. He hurled the stack of contact sheets against a wall, where they fluttered to the floor. What had made him think Leah was any different? Hadn’t he learned enough from his “loving” late wife and others of her ilk? Apparently not, he had to admit. The events of the past fifteen minutes spoke for themselves.

Had he actually told Leah she’d given him back his ability to trust? His humorless chuckle reverberated in the small room. And why did her deceit hurt so much, even more than Renee’s had? But he knew why. Leah was the first woman he’d ever really loved. His long-ago feelings for Renee, what he’d once thought of as love, were like a guttering candle flame next to the raging bonfire of what he’d felt for Leah.

And all the time she’d been laughing at him, hooking him and then reeling him in, like some gullible, lovestruck schoolboy. He welcomed the anger swelling within him. It was so much easier to deal with than his grief and pain.

“That bitch made a fool out of me,” he growled, gripping the edge of the water table with white-knuckled hands.

He remembered their lovemaking that afternoon with merciless clarity: the prickly grass poking through the picnic blanket under him, Leah on top of him, rocking and gasping in mindless deliverance, crying out his name as though in pain. He recalled the way her eyes closed and her lips parted, the way her beautiful breasts swayed and her angel hair was everywhere at once. He felt himself harden at the memory of their final union and cursed himself.

He fished in his shirt pocket for a piece of paper, which he unfolded. On it were sketches and notes. After his magazine interview, he’d met with an old friend of his, a jewelry artist. Together they’d designed a ring for Leah
—
an engagement ring. It was to have been a large, square-cut emerald, adorned with pearls in a setting of white gold. They’d labored over the details of the design for an hour.

“A fool...” he rasped, remembering how excited he’d been just minutes earlier, anticipating her response to his proposal, to the ring he’d lovingly designed just for her.

What the hell had she been after, anyway? Certainly not marriage, he thought, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the floor. Money? Not likely. Whatever else she was, she definitely had enough drive and ambition to make it on her own
—
and the desire to see her dreams fulfilled through her own hard work. These were qualities he’d admired in her.

Yet what else could have motivated her? Professional advancement didn’t apply in her case
—
her work was in no way connected with his. Of course, he’d known women for whom it had been enough simply to be an ornament on his arm, to bask in the reflected glory of being seen with a man like James Bradburn. He’d never respected women like that. None of this fit Leah.

With a jolt he remembered that she’d come to him a virgin. It didn’t make sense. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. Or did it? If a woman wanted something badly enough, wouldn’t she use every tool at her disposal to obtain it? A woman as duplicitous as Leah Harmony would certainly be capable of preserving her “purity”
—
like any other precious commodity
—
to use when it best suited her purposes.

Well, she could go to hell, he thought, taking a deep breath and blinking to clear his vision. He wouldn’t waste one more millisecond of his precious time, one more iota of mental energy
—
and certainly not one tear
—
on the woman. With a monumental effort, he hardened the shell around his heart and vowed to forget about Leah...the woman he’d wanted to bear his babies, the woman he’d wanted to grow old with.

The woman he’d never really known.

He started setting up his chemicals, readying his enlarger.
One thing is certain,
he thought while grimly preparing for a mind-numbing marathon photo-developing session.

I’ll never let it happen again.

“What color hair should I give my little girl
—
red or orange?” Merlina Moody Harmony reached into the large plastic shopping bag leaning next to her lawn chair and rummaged through skeins of yarn.

Leah had just arrived at her childhood home in Texarkana for a visit. Douglas was working at the tire plant, but Merl was behind the house in her usual spot, doing needlework for her church’s Christmas bazaar
—
an avocation that kept her busy all year.

Leah found another beat-up lawn chair near the simple four-room cabin Douglas had built twenty-four years earlier and in which she’d grown up. She dragged it over the weedy lawn next to Merl and examined the bald Raggedy Ann doll in her lap. “I’m partial to orange. Do you ever make Raggedy
Andys
?” she asked.

“Oh sure. The Anns sell better, though. Most folks are still real small-minded about giving dolls to boys. Course, if I ever get great-grandsons of my own
—
” she sent a meaningful look to Leah “
—
I’ll make ’em all the Andys they want.” She sighed eloquently and pulled a skein of orange yarn out of the bag.

“Mama, you’re impossible.” Leah smirked at the unsubtle reminder of her disappointing marital status.

“Now, tell me again
—
why did you and
your
Andy break up?”

My Andy?
Oh. Right. Her New York boyfriend, “Andrew.” Leah groaned inwardly; she’d hoped they were all through with that. “Look, it’s like I told you. We...just didn’t get along. You know how it is.” It had been two months since she’d left James. Two months of trying to forget a pair of sky blue eyes and the feel of a warm, hard body melding with hers. Two months of waking in the dark and reaching out for a memory.

Merl adjusted her reading glasses and calmly threaded the yarn through a fat needle. “Yeah, I know what you said. Doesn’t sound like much of a reason, that’s all. You two were pretty serious.”

“Well, maybe I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Leah squirmed, trying to get comfortable in the rickety old chair that had been rewebbed a half dozen times. During the long drive from Little Rock in her air-conditioned car, she hadn’t noticed how hot the day had become. Now she was glad she’d worn the lightweight pink linen sundress and sandals. Her hair was secured in one long, thick braid down her back.