MM03 - Saturday Mornings (17 page)

o0o

For three days after Margaret Leigh came home, Andrew courted from a distance. Every day he sent a small gift—flowers, a box of chocolates, a carousel music box. He gave her time to make peace with her mother; he loved her from a distance.

And on the fourth day he went courting.

Margaret Leigh was in the kitchen baking gingerbread when the doorbell rang.

“Will you get that Tess?”

There was no answer, and then Margaret Leigh remembered that Tess and Bertha had gone to visit Aunt Grace.

“Just a minute.” She washed the dough off her hands and smoothed back a strand of hair that had slipped from its pin. “Coming.”

Andrew McGill stood on her front porch, the setting sun framing him with splendor. She caught her breath, and stood clutching the door frame.

“Hello, Margaret Leigh.”

“Andrew...”

“May I come in?” She couldn't seem to force any words around the huge lump in her throat. “I'll take that as a yes.”

She backed up as Andrew came into the narrow hallway.

“Don't worry, my sweet. I'm still keeping my promise not to touch you until you want me to.”

He came so close that he might as well have been touching her. She could feel his body heat. It seared her from her throat all the way down to her thighs.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her thanks were heartfelt. If he hadn't been keeping that promise, if he had put so much as a finger on her cheek, she'd have taken him by the hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom. She'd have pulled him down onto her brass bed with the crocheted coverlet and begged him to make her feel the music of love again. And damned the consequences.

But that wasn't sensible. She was finished with impulse. No more running from problems. No more trying to deny the truth with matters of the flesh. And the truth was, she loved Andrew McGill, but she was terrified of loving and losing. The way Tess had. The way Bertha had.

She gathered courage by pressing her hands together and tilting up her chin. “Won't you come into the kitchen? I'm making gingerbread.”

“My mother makes gingerbread.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Hmmm. Smells good. I could eat about fifty gingerbread boys.”

“Fifty?” She loved it when Andrew made her laugh.

“Maybe I exaggerated a little. Maybe I can eat only ten.”

“You make me glad I baked gingerbread.” She backed against the counter for support.

“You make me glad I came.” He came close again, so close she could see the golden lights in the center of his eyes. His breath fanned her cheek as he bent down. “Do you know how fetching you look with gingerbread on your face?”

“It's on my face?” She brought both hands to her cheeks. “Where?”

His hand reached out, but he stopped just short of touching her chin. “There.” She wiped at the spot, and he pointed to her right cheek. “And there.” She rubbed her cheek. “And there.” His hand hovered just over her lips.

She circled her lips with her tongue.

“Don't tempt me like that, Margaret Leigh.”

“Like what?” Her question was totally innocent.

“With your tongue. You make me want to eat you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she pressed back against the counter.

“Don't worry, sweet. I won't. Not yet, anyhow.” He left her quickly, before he yielded to temptation. The chair he straddled offered a little protection, but not much. Having only a spindly piece of wood between him and the woman he wanted was a dangerous situation.

“Let me get you some gingerbread. The first batch is still hot.” Margaret Leigh was glad for something to do. She knew about baking and serving gingerbread; she didn't know a thing about handling a man like Andrew McGill.

Her hand trembled when she handed him the plate.

Keeping his promise took tremendous will power. “Love is nothing to be afraid of, Margaret Leigh.”

“I'm not afraid of you, Andrew.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Loving you.”

His hand tightened on the fork. That was the first good news he'd heard, the first indication that Margaret Leigh might be his. “I'm going to show you a different side of love from the ones you've known. I'm going to show you love that goes beyond the physical, love that is almost spiritual, love that endures.”

“How can you possibly do that?”

“Do you trust me, Margaret Leigh?”

She sat in a chair facing him before she answered. Then she folded her hands in her lap and looked directly into his eyes. “Believe it or not, you are the person I trust most in the world. You saved me from a horrible fate, even when I didn't want you to. You sent me lovely gifts, even though I never said I loved you.” She leaned forward. “Thank you for the gifts.”

“You're more than welcome. It was my pleasure.”

“And you've kept your promise not to touch me, even though it's obviously hard for you.”

“It is. I believe in the power of touch.”

“But more than all that, you gave me wise counsel. Because of you, Andrew, I've made peace with Bertha.”

“I'm glad. She does love you.”

“I know that now. While I still have a problem sometimes understanding why she gave me up and why she never told my father of my existence, I'm trying to live with it.”

“She told you who your father is?”

“She did, after Tess and I talked her into it. Even though he's dead, she still loves him enough to protect him.”

Andrew waited, hoping she would share this part of her life with him.

“He was a politician, a married senator from Georgia. They met when she was working in Washington. His name is Robert Graves Willingham. I am his only child, the child he never knew he had.” She pressed her fists hard against her thighs so she wouldn't tremble. “I wonder what would have happened if she had told him about me. I wonder if the three of us would have been a family.”

“You can't control the past, Margaret Leigh, but you can control the future.”

“I'm learning that.” She smiled at him. “Now, what are you going to show me about love?”

“Tomorrow. At seven. I'll pick you up.” He popped the last bite of gingerbread in his mouth and stood up, putting the plate on the table behind him.

“I'll be ready.” He started toward the door. She called softly, “Andrew.”

He turned around. She smiled as she walked toward him. Then, reaching up, she ran her hand tenderly over his mouth. “You have crumbs.”

Reluctant to break the contact, she kept her hand pressed over his mouth. He kissed her fingertips, lingering over them, moistening them with his tongue, taking the remnants of dough she had failed to wash away and savoring the peculiar sweetness of her skin.

She stepped back, and he took that as a signal to leave.

“Tomorrow, my love.”

And he was gone.

o0o

She was ready and waiting for him by six-thirty the following evening, sitting in the den wearing a new dress she'd splurged on, a soft, rose colored silk. The chair cushions were plumped up and a plate of gingerbread sat on the coffee table. The lamps were turned down low, and she was alone—all Tess's doings. She had insisted that Aunt Bertha accompany her to the movies, although Bertha had protested that she hadn't seen a movie in twenty years and wouldn't even know how to act.

Margaret Leigh answered the doorbell on the first chime. Neither of them spoke. They stood gazing at each other as if looking were a rare privilege and they'd paid a thousand dollars an hour and didn't want to waste a single minute.

Finally, she spoke. Catching the edge of her skirt, she did a curtsey. “Do you like my new dress?”

“You bought a new dress just for me?”

“Yes.”

“I've never seen a dress so beautiful, nor a model so exquisite.”

She smiled. “Will you have some gingerbread before we go?”

“If you promise to wipe away the crumbs.”

“No promises. Not yet, at least.”

They sat across from each other in the formal manner of a Victorian couple, behaving as if they had a chaperon peering over their shoulders. Then he escorted her to his old pickup truck. It had been freshly washed for the occasion.

He drove her to a sprawling house set among pines on the west side of Tupelo. During the drive, she hadn't asked any questions, and now, parked in the driveway of the lovely home, she still didn't. Her trust in Andrew was complete.

“My brother Rick lives here. Tonight you're going to meet my family.”

“Andrew, I told you I can't make any promises.”

“My sweet, as much as I would love to make a formal announcement and introduce you as my bride-to-be, I'm not going to. This visit is for you, and only for you. This is a family gathering. Rick and Martha Ann and their children will be here, of course, and my mom and dad, Sarah and Silas. Jo Beth and Colter couldn't come because the babies are too young, but you'll see pictures of them.”

He gave her a brief outline of his family history then put her at ease with his quick smile. “All I ask is that you observe my family and see what kind of love you find.”

Sarah and Silas McGill sat on the sofa, side by side, holding hands. They were beautiful as only old people who have loved much and lived well can be. Their spirits shone forth from their wrinkled faces.

Margaret Leigh loved them immediately.

After Andrew made the introductions, Sarah patted the sofa cushion. “Sit beside me, dear. I’ll protect you from all the peanut butter and jelly that's liable to come your way during the course of the evening.” She reached out and affectionately rumpled the hair of a small, blond boy who giggled and climbed into Silas's lap.

“Grandpa, give me a big hug.”

Silas hugged the little boy then turned to his wife. “Sarah, I don't know who this young fella is, but he seems to like me. Reckon I ought to take his picture?” He nodded toward the camera at his feet.

Sara patted his hand. “That's Michael, your grandson. Remember, Silas? He's one of Rick and Martha Ann's boys.”

Silas chuckled. “And gonna be a private eye, just like his daddy, I'll vow.”

“Yes, dear. I’ll bet he will.” Sarah kept patting his hand.

Margaret Leigh found Andrew watching her. She smiled, and he winked, as if to say, what did I tell you?

Rick and Martha Ann breezed in with trays of hors d'oeuvres. Two more little boys trailed along behind them, one making race car sounds and the other riding a make-believe pony.

Martha Ann McGill was a gorgeous woman with black hair, a sassy beauty mark near her mouth, and an infectious laugh, especially when her husband was nearby. And Rick was so much like his brother, Margaret Leigh found herself doing a double take. He had Andrew's blond hair and easy laugh, but didn't have his blue eyes, nor his special brand of wicked innocence, nor his particular sparkle, as if he'd been scrubbed and left in the sun to polish.

All in all, Andrew was more man. Much, much more man. At least, that's what she thought. From the looks of things, though, Martha Ann would give her some argument. It was obvious she thought Rick McGill was the only man on earth. They touched often, his hand on her cheek, her hand on his arm. And the looks they exchanged said what no words ever could: they were still wild about each other, after five years and two sets of triplets, after dirty diapers and winter colds and upset stomachs and taking out the garbage and mopping up spilled orange juice and seeing each other at their grumpiest.

“You must meet the girls.” Martha Ann took Margaret Leigh's hand and led her into the nursery. Three white cribs held three sleeping beauties, two with Martha Ann's dark hair and one with Rick's blond. They were sleeping on their stomachs with little fists curled under their pink cherub cheeks and their ruffle-clad rumps saluting the breeze.

“Sarah, Rebecca, and Julia.”

“They're angels,” Margaret Leigh said.

“Only when they're asleep.” Martha Ann went down the row of cribs, tucking a blanket here, adjusting a sheet there, dispensing loving pats on each sweet bottom. “You should be here when they're awake.” She paused to laugh. “Or maybe you shouldn't. They're so loud, I think they're all going to be opera singers.”

On the way out of the nursery, Margaret Leigh glimpsed a picture on the chest of drawers. It was of a stunning blond woman, a dark, dignified man, and two small babies.

“Jo Beth and Colter and the new babies,” Martha Ann explained. “They'll be coming soon for a visit.” Her face clouded. “Silas and Sarah are getting old, and with his Alzheimer’s he's beyond traveling now. Jo Beth wants to make sure they see their new grand-babies.”

Margaret Leigh remembered what Andrew had said at her family gathering:
My family values warmth and fun and spontaneity and happiness
. It was beautiful to watch.

Dinner was a lively affair, with the McGill brothers outdoing themselves making everybody laugh. In fact, Margaret Leigh decided that laughter might be the one thing she'd remember most about her evening.

After she and Andrew had said their good-byes and were on their way home, she twisted so she could see his face in the faint dashboard lights.

“Thank you, Andrew. I loved every minute of the evening.”

“I'm glad, Margaret Leigh. I wanted you to have a good time.”

“I did.”

He didn't say,
I told you so
. He didn't ask if she saw love in evidence. He didn't push or prod.

He merely kept his eyes on the road and started whistling a merry tune.

And when they arrived at her house, he escorted her to the door with the lightest pressure on her elbow, not really touching but not leaving her to walk in the dark by herself either.

The porch light was on. It cast a yellow glow over them as they stood face to face, saying goodbye but not wanting to.

“Thank you for coming with me.” He wanted to say.
Will you marry me?

“Thank you for asking.” She wanted to say, I
love you.

“I guess I'll be going.” He wanted to take her in his arms.

“Yes. You should be going.” She wanted to ask him to stay.

“Good night, Margaret Leigh.” He started to reach for her then. With the instincts of a natural-born toucher, he curved his hand to cup her cheek. His hand hovered in the air as he gazed down at her. “I do love you, pretty one. And it's the enduring kind. Know that. Always remember it.”