Cupid's Confederates (13 page)

“If we had a child,” Zach interrupted flatly, “I expect the house would be total chaos. Diapers and interrupted love scenes and bottles and crying and dinner at odd hours. I keep thinking about that. Of how I would be bothered by that. But the truth is, two bits, I wouldn’t be bothered by it at all.”

His head was certainly going faster than hers; she didn’t understand the connection. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“It wouldn’t bother me, because chaos doesn’t bother me, just like odd dinner hours don’t bother me. I can live with an awful lot as long as you’re happy. Only you’re not happy. Your pewter’s been banished to the study and plastic flowers have taken over the living room. I’ll laugh if you will—but I haven’t seen you laughing. Bett, she isn’t sick. She isn’t still grieving the way she was. You’ve had me to back you up, to support you, and you know it. So why the hell are we living in Elizabeth’s house?”

Bett uncoiled from the couch, stiff and hurting and suddenly furious at his even tone. She hadn’t been prepared for knife wounds this evening. She thought fleetingly that she could be married for a million years and never be prepared for a hurt deliberately delivered by her mate. “Come on. You think that’s fair?” she protested. “If our lifestyle’s changed, it’s because you invited her here. All I’ve been doing is the best I know how to—”

“You haven’t done a damn thing but let it happen,” he said flatly. “You know exactly what we value as a couple, what we need as lovers, what the two of us are all about. And it’s really as simple as the lock on the bedroom door that doesn’t exist—but you bought that lock, didn’t you, Bett? It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”

She swallowed, folding her arms stiffly across her chest. “I could hardly put it on. I knew just how hurt she’d be if she saw it, how horribly embarrassed at the thought that she’d been interrupting—”

“Right. A lock wasn’t the answer. Telling her to handle her own insomnia was. I tried once—and failed. Your mother has a disarming way of being manipulative. But I didn’t try again, because the fact is, two bits, it was
your
job. She’s your mother. And you’re the one who
needs
to deal with her.”

He was very still, half in shadow, half in light. Waiting. For what? she thought furiously. “What did you want me to tell her, to stay out because we wanted to make love?”

“Yes.”

“Zach, that’s ridiculous,” Bett hissed.

“No,” he said quietly. “It would just be hard. And that isn’t the same thing as ridiculous at all. What you and I have built together—you have to stand up for it sometime. Now, if you want me to put it all back in order, I will—so fast it’ll make your head spin. This is
not
your mother’s house. It’s yours. I can do it for you, Bett, but somehow I never thought I’d have to.
Do
the two of us mean something to you?”

Tears burned in her eyes. “Of course we do,” she said in a low voice. “How could you even ask that? Zach, if you’re demanding that I make her leave—”

He shook his head. “You’re not hearing me at all, honey. I don’t give a damn if your mother leaves or stays. I’m talking about you and me.” He straightened, staring at her. “You’d better think it out,” he said flatly. “Soon.”

He walked past her, and a moment later she heard the thudding sound of his footsteps on the stairs. She couldn’t seem to look away from the blank, empty doorway. The tears dried in her eyes, leaving a salty aftersting. She felt cold. Her fingers curled around her upper arms, rubbing up and down. Zach? So cruel?
You haven’t done a thing but let it all happen.
Did he think it had all been so easy on her? How unfair could one man be?

Her head ached, and an odd tremor disturbed the even beat of her heart. Fear. Never in the five years of her marriage had she ever considered that Zach might leave her. He hadn’t threatened to leave her now, but it was there, suddenly, the reminder that love wasn’t carved in stone and never came with a guarantee.

Déjà vu:
 
She could remember exactly that tremorous heartbeat from when she’d first fallen in love with him. An incredible elation when she was with him, followed seconds later by depression at the thought that she could lose him, followed seconds later by elation again. She’d forgotten about those insane mood swings. Other people in love seemed to exhibit the same psychotic symptoms. But they’d gone away, of course, because once she had the ring on her finger she didn’t have to worry quite so much about that love. Did she?

Where had that horrible lump in her throat come from? Darn it, she was exhausted. And confused. She switched off the lights in Zach’s study and the lights in the kitchen and headed for the stairs. And then didn’t go up. The house suddenly seemed smothering to her. Mindlessly, she grabbed a coat from the front hall closet and let herself out the front door.

Cold wind snatched at her hair and whipped around her cheeks; she gulped it into her lungs. Her legs were in a terrible hurry, walking nowhere. Just down a farm road. A few snowflakes fluttered down, blurring her vision. The uneven earth set obstacles in her path, just small stones and ridges and hollows, but she could barely see in the darkness. She stumbled, yet didn’t slow her headlong pace.

It helped, the rush. Anger bubbled up inside of her, shunting aside the unbearable fear.
Zach
had asked Elizabeth here;
she
hadn’t. Did he think there’d be no piper to pay, having someone else in the house with them full-time?

For Bett, there’d always been a piper to pay where her mother was concerned. Resentment and love came in the same package. She’d thought that Zach understood. Just as he’d said, for once in their lives she’d wanted to relate successfully to her mother.
Now,
when Elizabeth needed her.
And that’s all I’ve been doing,
Bett thought furiously.
Being good to Mom. Loving her. Caring for her. So where exactly was the crime?

She walked and stumbled, walked and stumbled. Out of nowhere, Zach had turned selfish. Men were the pits. Husbands were the worst. She was not Wonder Woman. She was so damned tired she could barely see straight. Exactly what more was she supposed to do?

She walked through the orchards, over the clover hill, past the woods, and finally stopped at the pond, out of breath. The full moon was partially shrouded by clouds, but that faint silver circle still glistened on the icy waters. The cattails were brown now; frogs and crickets had gone to sleep for the winter. Her fingers were so cold she could barely feel them; she jammed her hands into her pockets.

Zach was clearly being a bastard. Unfair, unreasonable, callous, insensitive. Yet that whisper of fear shivered again through Bett’s bloodstream. Fear that came from nowhere. From the wind and the night.

She was so totally different from her mother. She’d tried, so often, to be a Brittany. She’d been trying for almost three months. She’d been miserable most of that time. Just once, she thought fleetingly, she had wanted her mother to say that she understood. The farm, her chosen lifestyle, the zillions of things that made up the person that Bett was. The woman she was.

Winning approval was a game that children played. There must still be some of that child in her, because Bett suddenly saw all too clearly how much she had sacrificed in the past three months, trying to win it. Mothers were such very powerful people. Love wasn’t the only thing that made up that blood tie; there was the intrinsic definition of femininity, of everything it meant to be a woman. A mother spelled out her version of that definition first, before anyone else had a chance.

Tears burst from her eyes suddenly, shocking her, choking her. They kept on coming. She’d tried so damn hard.
Damn
Zach. How
dare
he think she hadn’t minded the changes in the household, the loss of their privacy? How
could
he accuse her of not valuing the love they had? Couldn’t he understand the impossible position she’d found herself in, trying to please her mother, her husband
and
herself? It was a no-win situation. What on earth did he expect her to do?

What she’d
been
doing was walking a tightrope, trying to live by her mother’s standards, trying to appease Zach.
He
was the one who was angry?
She
was the one who’d gotten totally lost in the meantime.

So who let that happen, Bett?
nagged a most unwelcome voice inside of her.
Zach? Your mother? Or you?

The night was frigidly cold. She could not remember ever feeling a wind quite like this one, so unforgiving, so fierce and icy and eerily silent.

Thanksgiving dawned with four inches of crystal-white snow on the ground. At six in the morning, dressed in a long flannel robe, Bett awkwardly pulled the twenty-pound turkey from the refrigerator. The unwieldy bird was certainly more than big enough to feed six. Two weeks before, she and Zach had mentioned to Elizabeth that they always took in lonely strays from the neighborhood on the holiday. That they’d found three unattached men in the age bracket of forty-five to sixty was purely accidental, they’d let Elizabeth believe. But then, two weeks ago, Bett and Zach had been confederates in the gentle conspiracy of finding someone for her mother to love.

Who could have guessed they’d risk losing their own love in the process?

Humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Bett burrowed into the back of the pantry for the huge roasting pan she only used twice a year. For five long days, up until now, she’d been humming funeral dirges instead. For five very stupid days, she’d let anger hum between herself and her husband, a silent song. Two of those days she’d still been furiously angry with Zach. Two more days had been wasted being furiously angry with herself. The one productive day out of the five was yesterday, when with far too painful clarity Bett had tried to put her emotional house in order.

That was done, and battle hymns were now appropriate. It seemed she had a few bridges to mend, none of them small ones. Both careful and immediate mending was called for, and that was not going to be easy, when this Thanksgiving had already been set up as yet another day revolving around her mother. Which was
not,
Bett was finally beginning to understand, her mother’s fault, but her own. The last thing she and Zach needed was yet another day interrupted by strangers, which was why she was humming. Humor was armor against fear—fear that her husband was out of both patience and compassion—and Bett had a great deal to put right and
now,
chaotic day or no.

With a cup of steaming coffee on one side and the turkey on the other, she started slicing tiny slips of mushrooms and celery for the dressing. She’d measured a cupful of each when she heard the quiet footstep in the doorway. Zach.

“Morning,” she said brightly, suddenly so busy she could barely think. Where exactly was it that she kept the mugs, the coffee, the spoons…a freshly brewed cup was set in front of him almost before he’d slid into the chair.

“Morning,” he echoed back.

Her nervous system registered a little chill emanating from him, a little startled stare at her exuberance, and about five miles of distance.

“Want some breakfast?”

“Just coffee. You’re up early.”

When one intended to rebuild an entire life in a day, one could hardly sleep late. “Yes.” He wasn’t encouraging any more conversation. She took a deep breath and then turned her back, searching for a skillet. He was getting scrambled eggs and ham. He loved scrambled eggs and ham. Whether he wanted them or not was irrelevant.

She stole a few surreptitious glances at him. She loved the look of his hair all tousled from sleep, the softness of his mouth framed in a morning beard, the sleepy-lazy blue of his eyes before he really awakened and took on the world. He’d managed to be out of the house a great deal these past few days. Early to rise, late to bed, and around as little as possible. It was up to her to break the silence; she knew that. Only they’d never had an argument like this one before, where they’d actually hurt each other very badly, where something had broken down that they’d both assumed had a lifetime warranty.

Had her heart picked up a murmur during the past five days? It just wouldn’t beat evenly. What if she said the wrong thing now? So she said nothing, but browned the ham, whipped up the eggs, then hurried to the opposite counter to finish chopping. She reminded herself to melt some butter in the microwave to toss in with the bread crumbs. If the dressing didn’t get packed in the turkey, the turkey wouldn’t get cooked, the people wouldn’t get fed and she couldn’t kick them all out to talk to Zach. She could feel his eyes on her back, and her mind reeled through a practice run of what she wanted to tell him. So much, so very much, and it was all lumped in her throat.

The eggs started bubbling. Bolting back to the stove, she stirred like mad, and heard the unwelcome sound of water running upstairs. Her mother was up. This wasn’t the time to try to talk to Zach anyway, yet she couldn’t possibly keep on another minute with that horrible lump in her throat. She flipped off the stove burner, slid his breakfast onto a plate, nervously rubbed her hands on her robe, heard the ping of the microwave timer, poured melted butter into the bread crumbs, told herself to
stop all this racing,
and set the fork and knife and bowl down in front of him, perching on the edge of the opposite chair at the same time.

“Look, Zach,” she started unhappily.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you two,” Elizabeth chirped brightly from the doorway, and bent to give first her daughter and then her son-in-law a peck on the cheek.

Bett lurched back up, her total frustration masked by an innocuous smile. “Sleep well, Mom?”

“Wonderfully. Better than I have in weeks—at least until I looked out the window and saw the snow. I just hate winter, the thought of driving on icy roads. Now, that’s one beautiful turkey,” she complimented her daughter.

“Yes,” Bett said distractedly.

“You should have woken me. You know I would have—”

“Bett.” Zach’s low voice somehow reverberated within her amid her mother’s bright chatter.

“—helped you with the stuffing. We’ll have to get the turkey in awfully early if we’re going to have it done by three. I thought I’d wear the lavender print, though—”

She heard him. That was just it—how often
hadn’t
she heard him in the past few months of frantically following her mother’s conversations? Her eyes locked on his face, and she was startled to glimpse the first natural smile she’d seen on his lips in days. She savored a fervent hope of a thaw in the frigid barrier between them for several seconds before she noticed where his hands were motioning.

Elizabeth, unfortunately, had already turned around. “What on earth is Zach doing with the stuffing?”

“Nothing,” Bett said stiffly. She whisked the bowl back to the counter and put his plate of cooling eggs on the table in front of him. Brilliant, Bett, she thought morosely, thoroughly demoralized. Maybe she should offer up a prayer that at least she hadn’t stuffed the turkey with scrambled eggs.

Her spirits rallied when she saw her mother zeroing in on the turkey. “Nothing doing,” Bett said firmly. “Mom, you’ve been cooking for us for weeks. Now, I know that’s been your choice, but it’s my turn. Just sit down, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“Brittany, I am hardly going to leave you with all this to do by yourself.”

“Sure you are.” Bett steered a cup of coffee toward her mother’s hand. “Think of it as a vacation day. A ‘feet up’ relaxer.”

“Well…”

Elizabeth was persuaded to sit down, bribed with a slice of peach coffee cake. Bett whirled back to her turkey, her mind rushing through the morning’s organizing of recipes and cooking. The menu included her whole-grain zucchini bread, honey-glazed carrots, the sinfully rich coeur à la crème—roughly translated as “cream of the heart.” She didn’t dare look at Zach. He was undoubtedly going to see this morning as yet another instance of Bett slaving in the kitchen over her mother’s choices. They were
hers,
and it mattered so very much that he understand that. Chop, chop, chop. Even her cleaver was picking up determination.

Her mother suddenly was hovering over her shoulder, the coffee cake obviously having exhausted its appeal. “I’ve always loved Thanksgiving,” Elizabeth mentioned idly.

“Me, too.”

“I could do that for you.”

“I’d rather do it myself, Mom.” Bett poured the last cup of chopped ingredients into the huge bowl and started stirring.

“You’re going to add raisins, aren’t you? Your father always liked raisins in the stuffing.”

“Actually, no,” Bett said weakly.

There was a moment of silence for this bit of heresy. Bett spared a longing glance for her still-full, now-cold, cup of coffee on the counter. She should have managed at least one full quota of caffeine before anyone was up. Why was hindsight so cheap? And why did this whole scene feel like Custer’s Last Stand?

“I think,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “you should add raisins. I always do.” Bett felt her mother shift restlessly behind her. “Actually, Brittany, you should go up and get dressed. I could finish the stuffing for you, and then later you wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry…”

“That’s okay, Mom. There’s plenty of time.”

“You’re not going to add raisins.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “That’s up to you, of course. It never occurred to me that you didn’t like them. You never said anything, all the years you lived at home. And every single Thanksgiving…”

The pause was Bett’s cue to give in. Not that there would be an argument if she didn’t. Just very gentle needling, perhaps a sentimental blur of tears in her mother’s eyes for scorned traditions, and the unconscious message that Bett was doing something wrong. Like a sponge, Bett had always soaked up guilt. Obviously, there was something terribly wrong with her for wanting to make stuffing without raisins.

Raisins?

Bett suddenly felt sick. She’d planned a tactful confrontation with her mom, but, truthfully, over something far more heroic than dried fruit.

“Each to her own taste,” she said mildly, thinking that perhaps it
was
easier to start with the little things. In your house, your way, darling. In my house, mine. The first bridge was just saying it aloud.

She glanced over her shoulder after a moment or two. Her mother was staring at her with an odd expression as Bett stuffed the raisinless mixture into the bird.

“I have a story to tell you,” Bett continued cheerfully. “The very first year we were married, I cooked Thanksgiving turkey for Zach. I got out two cookbooks and memorized the instructions and told Zach I didn’t want any help. I must have basted the thing every two minutes; it was a miracle it ever cooked, but that’s neither here nor there. You never let me in the kitchen as a kid, Mom, more’s the pity. I didn’t realize the turkey was…um…hollow inside. Much less than there was anything inside the holes…”

Her mother’s mouth was slowly starting to curve into a smile; so was Bett’s. “I called Zach in to carve when it was done,
so
proud of myself. He said he’d first get the stuffing out for me, so out came the heart and gizzard and neck and all, still in the paper bag.
Very
well cooked they were. So was the paper bag. What on
earth
is that? I asked him…”

Elizabeth started laughing. So did Bett. Bridge two, she thought wryly.
Mom, I would like to announce that you have a daughter capable of doing some very foolish things. I don’t want your damn approval. I just want to share.

Her mother’s eyes were sparkling with laughter. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Sweetheart, did
I
ever tell
you
the story of when I was first married…”

No, she’d never told Bett the story. Bett had always been under the impression that her mother never made mistakes in the kitchen, that Elizabeth had been born with the ruthless efficiency to manage a faultless house. Bett’s eyes flickered to the table. Zach had left the kitchen. She wished he were there. She wanted him to see that she
had
heard him, that the small bridges were being mended.

Her mother suddenly reached over and hugged her, and Bett hugged back. “Brittany, we’re going to have a wonderful day!” Elizabeth announced.

Bett was suddenly not quite so unhappy that Zach had disappeared. All the bridges didn’t have to do with Zach. Her relationship with her mother was separate in itself.

Her heart was in both corners, but there was no question, not for an instant, where her priorities were.

She loved her mother; Zach was her life.

***

“That was an absolutely wonderful dinner!” Wynn Hawthorne pushed himself back from the table, patted his stomach, his white head shaking in appreciation.

Wynn was a retired insurance man, with all the gregarious conversation that went with his trade. Bob Lake owned a local processing plant; he seemed a quiet, austere man, and he’d lost his wife three years ago. Garth Hawkins, the bearded giant, had four generations of fanning behind him.

Heaven only knew why Bett had thought they would blend at the table over a Thanksgiving feast. They did have one thing in common—being lonely strays—but only a manic optimist would have believed that was enough. Not that talk hadn’t flowed easily enough, but Elizabeth was sitting silently on the other side of the table, rarely drawn into the conversation. She seemed to lack any interest in any of them…actually, to an almost unusual degree. Once Elizabeth got over her shyness, she’d always been naturally curious about people.

Awkwardly, Bett stood up. “Dessert, everyone?” Awkwardly, she started to clear the plates. “Awkwardly” summed up the entire afternoon, and she felt ridiculously close to tears. She’d been swamped with chores in the kitchen all morning; there hadn’t been an instant to talk with Zach. Twice he’d walked in—once the blender had been roaring, and the second time Billy Oaks had popped in the door. His mother obviously had kicked him out so she could prepare her own Thanksgiving feast in relative peace; in the meantime, he’d brought the thriving raccoons over to show Bett. Of course, they’d gotten loose in the kitchen.

She hadn’t seen Zach again until she was letting their company in the front door. Her dress was dark red, a velvet jersey. It had stitching under the bodice that almost made her look busty, a gentle flow to the skirt, feminine medieval sleeves, a soft V to the neck. She could not conceivably look better. She’d violently threatened her hair to stay in its pins; tiny strands curled around her cheeks and the nape of her neck; mascara and shadow highlighted every seductive potential she had in her eyes; and she’d applied perfume lightly in every wicked hollow.