MM03 - Saturday Mornings (9 page)

He reached for her.

“You've finally come to your senses, have you?” She came to him willingly.

“I certainly have.” He twisted his shorts into a rope and looped them around her wrist.

'What are you doing?”

“Taking you captive, my dear.”

He placed his wrist on top of hers and bound the two together with his boxer shorts. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed to tie a knot that would hold.

“Why, you—”

“Lie down and be quiet, Margaret Leigh. I'm going to sleep.” He stretched out, naked as the day he was born, and shut his eyes. “I have bird dogs to train in the morning.”

She thought of putting up another fight, but all the energy seemed to have gone out of her. She lay down beside him, keeping as much distance between her body and his as she could possibly manage. Then she tried to sleep.

Chapter Six

The morning sun streaming through the window woke Andrew. The first thing he did was turn his head to check his captive. Margaret Leigh was on her side, her back to him, her free hand under her cheek and one knee drawn up to her stomach. Her slip straps had slid off her shoulders, revealing the lacy bra underneath. Her thick, silky hair was deliciously tumbled, and long lashes fanned across her sleep-rosy cheeks.

All that could have been mine.
He quietly slid his hand out of the bonds and eased off the bed. She didn't even stir. She was exhausted, ravaged, no doubt, by her emotions.

Outside he could hear his dogs baying, greeting the morning sun and reminding him it was time for breakfast. He hurried from the room and closed the door softly behind him. She would sleep till he got back. Then when she woke up, he and Miss Margaret Leigh Jones were going to have a long talk.

o0o

Margaret Leigh woke up with a start. The sun slanted across her eyes, and for a moment she thought she was in her own bed. The dull throbbing in her head and the heaviness in her body quickly vanquished that dream. She would never have another ordinary morning as long as she lived.

She sat up, holding her head and groaning. The shorts dangling from her wrist brushed against her cheek. She jerked them off and threw them across the room. They landed in the corner and lay in a heap like an accusing eye, mocking her. Andrew's shorts were a vivid reminder of what had taken place in that bed.

Her face burning, she jumped up and looked at the rumpled sheets. She had thrown herself at Andrew like some brassy wench, and he had turned her down. Humiliation crushed her, making it difficult to breathe.

She had to get out of there. She had to leave before she made a fool of herself all over again. Where was her dress? She didn't even remember getting out of it. She turned slowly and saw it draped over a chair. Picking it up, she saw the bandages on her hands. She had forgotten about them. Andrew had put them there. Always Andrew.

She struggled with her dress, feeling weak and too tired to raise the zipper.

“I’ll help you with that.”

Andrew was standing in the doorway, casually offering his help as if he hadn't turned her down then climbed buck naked into her bed and tied her up with his underwear.

Rage and humiliation almost choked her.

“If you ever touch me again, I'll wrap your family jewels around your neck and hang you with them.”

He chuckled. “I'm glad to see you're feeling better this morning.”

He strolled into the room and moved her trembling hands away from her zipper. Then he fastened her dress as if it were his right.

“Leave me alone.” She jerked out of his reach.

He crossed back to the doorway and leaned there, standing guard.

“You look pale today, Margaret Leigh. You should still be in bed.”

“I wouldn't get into your bed if it were the last place on earth to put my head.”

“Anger is a good sign that you're healing.”

“There's nothing to heal.” She combed her hair with her fingers, making herself ready to leave. “Move out of my way.”

“Where are you going?”

“Why do you care?”

“You came to me. Remember?”

She remembered only too well. Tears stung the back of her eyelids, but she held them in.

Andrew crossed the room swiftly. His hands were gentle as they bracketed her shoulders.

“You can stay here as long as you need to, Margaret Leigh. If you want to talk, I'll listen, and if you want to keep quiet, I won't pry.” He tipped her chin up with one finger. “Let me be your friend, sweetheart.”

“I don't need a friend. I need a lover.” She shoved against him and marched out of the room.

He thought about calling her back, but he knew it would be useless. And he didn't intend to keep her there by force. He stood in the bedroom until he heard his front door slam, then he walked into his den and looked out the window. Her head was high as she climbed into her car.

“She’ll make it. She’ll be all right.”

His words echoed in the quiet room, and he wondered why he was trying to reassure himself about Margaret Leigh's well being. Who was she to him? Just a lovely old-fashioned woman he'd taken dancing. It was best altogether to let her go.

He whistled as he turned to his kitchen to make breakfast. He'd always believed that a little music and a full stomach made it easier to face the day. He made scrambled eggs and toast, then he sliced bananas on his corn flakes and poured himself a big glass of orange juice, telling himself all the while that he had bird dogs to train. He couldn't be worrying about Margaret Leigh.

 o0o

Margaret Leigh held the steering wheel in a death grip as she left behind the cabin in Boguefala Bottom. What was she going to do? She couldn't go to work looking the way she did, and she couldn't go home. Up ahead she spotted a service station. She pulled in and ducked into the ladies' room, taking the purse on the front seat of her car. It had stayed there all night, undisturbed.

She made repairs to her hair and face the best way she could, then she went inside and bought herself a candy bar and a soft drink. Breakfast.

Yesterday she would never have dreamed of abusing her body with junk food. But this was another day. She might eat nothing but candy and soda for the rest of her life. It would serve Aunt Bertha right if she died of malnutrition—if she didn't die of humiliation first.

The day at the library was long, but then days accompanied by anger and agony and guilt always were. Margaret Leigh brushed a strand of hair from her eyes as she placed a load of books on the book cart.

A streak of late-afternoon sun slanted through the high windows on the west side of the processing department, setting dust motes dancing among the books waiting to be catalogued. The clock on the wall religiously guarded the time, doling it out with each revolution of the minute hand.

Margaret Leigh glanced at the clock. Five minutes to five. Only five more minutes and she could leave. But then what would she do? Where would she go?

“I'm glad you're alone, Margaret Leigh.”

She jerked her head toward the door. Andrew McGill stood there in his leather jacket, looking as out of place among the books and paste as a wolf in a gathering of lambs. She groped for her tattered defenses and her wits at the same time.

“This is not the place to check out books. You'll have to go downstairs to the front desk.”

“I'm not here to check out books.”

She'd be darned if she'd ask him why he was there. She stayed where she was, glad the book cart was between them.

“I'm here to see if you're all right.”

“I'm great. Top of the world. Free as a bird.”

“Then why aren't you smiling?”

She bared her teeth at him. “I'm smiling.”

“No, you're not. You're hurting.”

“I don't want your pity.”

“It's not pity; it's friendship.”

She didn't want friendship. Friends trusted each other, and she would never trust again.

“Since you don't want my body, why do you want my friendship?”

“Dammit, Margaret Leigh. There's more to a man and a woman than sex.”

“Not that I've noticed.”

“Then you've been looking in the wrong places.”

“Where should I look... the Pirates' Den?”

Guilty,
Andrew thought. He was the one who had shown her that side of life, all under the guise of making her over. His plan had backfired. He stalked across the room, shoving the book cart aside and gripping her shoulders.

“I've never seen a woman so bent on destroying herself. Why are you doing this?”

“Why do you care?”

His face softened, and his hands began to make lazy circles on her upper arm.

“Darned if I know.” If she had ever seen a more endearing smile, she didn't know where. She hardened her heart. “Maybe it's because I like to keep both the dogs I train and their owners happy.”

He brushed his knuckles down the side of her face.

“Or maybe it's because you have such soft skin.” His gaze held hers as he caressed her face with the back of his hand. “I asked myself that same question today. Why can't I just train my bird dogs and let you do whatever it is you're bound and determined to do?”

“Did you ever answer yourself?”

She hated the way her voice had gone whispery and soft and the way she trembled inside, waiting for his reply. That was the old Margaret Leigh talking, the one who was too scared of men even to give them a decent kiss, the one who believed in the redemptive qualities of love.

The new Margaret Leigh rose to the surface. She shoved his hands aside and stepped out of his range.

“Not that I care, one way or the other.”

Andrew crammed his hands into his pockets.

“Don't take anything personally, Margaret Leigh. I guess I'm getting soft in my old age.”

The hurt she felt was unexpected and unwelcome. She didn't have room in her life for any more pain. She had to get rid of this man once and for all. A wickedness born of desperation rose to her aid.

“I can vouch for that. You've gotten soft in more places than one.”

He threw back his head and hooted with laughter. It wasn't the reaction she'd expected.

“If you keep issuing challenges like that, I'll be forced to prove you wrong.”

“You had your chance and you blew it.”

He studied her, his eyes as intense as the center of blue-hot flames.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Nothing. It's quitting time. I'm leaving.” She picked up her purse and started toward the door.

“Where are you going? Home?”

“That's none of your business, Andrew McGill.”

“I'm making it my business.”

“Then you should know this: I'm not the same woman who came to your cabin last Saturday. I'm a new flaming, sizzling Margaret Leigh. Don't come too close or you might get burned.”

“I thrive on heat.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder and marched from the processing room, her head high and her heels tapping am angry rhythm on the tile floor. Andrew didn't even bother to disguise his intent. He followed her, not caring if everybody in the library saw them.

Margaret Leigh heard his footsteps, as loud as doom, coming down the stairs behind her. She felt his large shadow as she passed through the front doors. She heard his truck shift into gear as she pulled out of the parking lot.

Andrew McGill was a maniac. He was going to follow her all the way home.

She got fainthearted just thinking about going back to the house on Allen Street. But she had to go back sometime. What other choice did she have? She had no clothes except the ones on her back, and she had exactly thirty-two dollars and fifteen cents in her purse. Not enough for a decent motel room. And with Christmas coming soon, she didn't dare overload her credit card.

She saddened at the thought of Christmas. Who would she send gifts to this year? She didn't even know who were her real relatives.

Her steps dragged as she left her car and walked up her porch steps. It had taken all her energy to face down Andrew in the library.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see his red truck, parked boldly at the curb. She hoped he got gray hairs from the boredom of waiting for her.

She pushed open the front door and slipped inside.

“Margaret Leigh. Is that you, honey?”

Bertha Adams appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her pink challis dress looked as if she'd slept in it.

Margaret Leigh squelched the quick surge of compassion. Old habits would die hard, but she was going to do her best to give them a quick and merciful death.

“Yes, it's me. But you needn't bother coming out. I won't be here long enough for a mother-daughter chat.”

“Please.” Bertha pulled at her frazzled gray hair. “Come inside and talk to me. Let me explain.”

“You already have. You slept with another woman's husband, and when you found yourself in the unfortunate situation of being pregnant, you did the noble thing and gave me away.”

“It wasn't like that. We loved each other. I love
you.”
Bertha came out of her room and clutched at Margaret Leigh's sleeve. “You have to understand... I had no other choice.”

“Leave us both some dignity. Please.”

She plucked the hand off her arm and continued up the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“To pack a bag.”

“You're going to Chicago? To stay with Tess?”

“No. I'm going to stay with the first man who will have me.”

Bertha clutched her heart and grew faint. But a sudden burst of maternal love gave her courage. She forgot about her own health and started up the stairs after her daughter. At this moment, nothing was more important to her than Margaret Leigh.

She braced herself in the doorway and stood watching her daughter cram clothes into her suitcase. She wasn't even bothering to fold them. That wasn't like Margaret Leigh. She'd always been so neat.

Bertha drew a big breath arid starting talking, very fast.

 “I didn't think I could get pregnant. I was old, already in menopause. But it happened anyhow.”

She paused for breath, then hurried on.

“In the sixties there was a stigma against women who got pregnant and didn't have husbands. Abortion was not a choice for me, and there were no homes for unwed mothers, not in Tupelo anyhow. An unmarried woman pregnant in the sixties was an outcast. The stigma was even worse for the child. They were called names.”