Promise Me A Rainbow (43 page)

“You’ve got that woman in your bed!” Catherine heard quite clearly.

Oh, God, she thought, trying to get her shoes on. Della. The last thing in this world she needed was Della.

She hurried toward the kitchen, looking for Fritz along the way, hoping Joe had banished her upstairs.

Only Joe and Della were in the kitchen. Della still had her coat on. The tray with the merry-go-round sat on the kitchen table.

“You!” Della cried, turning on Catherine immediately. “What kind of woman are you? You don’t care! You don’t even
care
that Fritz is here!”

“Della, that’s enough!” Joe said. “I told you why Catherine is—”

“I don’t believe you, Daddy!”

“Then that’s
your
problem! I don’t lie to my children. I never have!”

“That was before, Daddy.
Before
you got hooked up with a bitch like her!”

Catherine thought Joe was going to hit her. He had Della by both shoulders, but then he suddenly let go.

“I want you to sit down here! I’m going to tell you this one time—”

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say!” Della yelled at him. “It’s not you talking! It’s her. You’ll say what she tells you to. I know she’s told you all about me—”

“Catherine hasn’t told me anything about you. As far as I know, you haven’t seen her since the barbecue, and it was Mrs. Webber who filled me in on
that
piece of work. Have you and Margaret had another one of your little talks with Catherine I don’t know about?”

Della chose not to answer him.

“Catherine, have you talked to Della since the barbecue?” Joe abruptly asked her.

She looked into his eyes, hating this situation, and hating even more that she was the reason for it. “Yes.”

“When, for God’s sake!”

“It doesn’t matter, Joe—”

“It matters to me! What happened here? Did you two get together and decide how things were going to be and just leave me the hell out of it? Don’t I have anything to say about anything?”

“Everything was all right until she started hanging around!” Della put in, as if to keep her grievance in the spotlight.

“Catherine has nothing to do with the way you’re behaving now!”

“Please!” Catherine said loudly, and both of them turned around to look at her. She was feeling light-headed, and she grasped the back of one of the kitchen chairs to steady herself. “Joe, I want to go. Now. I can’t . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, losing her train of thought in a wave of dizziness.

“Catherine, we have to talk. Della, where are you going!”

Della was already out the backdoor, Joe right behind her.

Catherine could hear him calling her as he ran down the drive, and then she heard the sputter of gravel and a car being driven fast.

She tried to walk to the window to see, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. She had to sit down at the kitchen table instead.

I can’t stand this,
she thought, putting her head in her hands.
I can’t.

She started at the sudden hand on her shoulder—Fritz , with tears streaming down her face. Worried little Fritz locking her arms around her neck and holding on tight.

It was so confusing! She was just going to have to ask, and that was all there was to it.

She stood in the kitchen doorway. The outside Christmas lights were still on, and they helped her see that Joe was sitting at the kitchen table.

But his back was to her. She didn’t want to barge right in—what if he was crying like he used to when he felt sad about Lisa? She didn’t want to sneak up on him. If he
wasn’t
mad that would just about do it.

He suddenly turned around and saw her standing in the doorway.

“Fritz, it’s late. What are you still doing up?”

He didn’t sound mad exactly, but she wasn’t getting a warm welcome, either. She was just going to have to tell him what was on her mind.

“Is Catherine like Brenda?” she asked point-blank, because that was what she wanted to know and there was no use beating around the bush about it.

“What?”

Joe was frowning. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear it in his voice.

“Is Catherine like Brenda?” she repeated.

“Fritz, I don’t know what you mean.”

She used the same expression Charlie used when there was cake enough for everybody on Sunday and she couldn’t find a crumb of it on Monday. “Here today and gone tomorrow.”

He didn’t answer her.

“Joe—” she said, and to her dismay her voice locked up on her the way it had that night at Catherine’s house. She was going to cry again, and she just hated it.

“Come here, Fritz,” he said, and she didn’t hesitate, running the short distance to get to him.

“Fritz . . .” he began as he took her on his lap, but she didn’t want him to make her stop crying. She wanted an answer to her question.

“Don’t you like Catherine anymore? I didn’t think Catherine was like Brenda, but now I can’t tell.”

“Don’t cry.”

“I—can’t—help it—”

“Listen to me . . . are you listening?”

“Trying—” she managed.

“I want to tell you this. Not many people know it.”

“What?”

“I still like Catherine, Fritz. But I don’t just like her. I love her. You understand? I guess nobody knows it except Catherine. And maybe Uncle Michael.”

Fritz sniffed heavily. “And Della?”

“Yes, I’ve told Della. But I don’t think she believes it.”

“I believe it,” she said.

“Yeah, I thought you would.”

“I love Catherine, too.” Just like a mother, she almost said, but she was afraid that Joe wouldn’t want to hear that. “Can’t Catherine come stay with us?”
We could be like a family.

“Not the way things are now, Fritz.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t get an answer to that question because a car turned into the driveway. Joe set her down and went to open the door and turn on the outside and kitchen lights. She knew that he was hoping it was Della, but it wasn’t. It was Uncle Michael. She could see him when he came under the carport light on his way to the back door.

Joe looked at her, giving her a signal with his thumb that she was to get herself back upstairs.

She sighed heavily. She didn’t want to go!

“Beat it,” Joe told her, not in his mad voice but in a voice that let her know that she had no choice.

She lingered as long as she dared, hoping to hear something she could discuss with Charlie when she got upstairs. For once Charlie was more interested in what was happening in the family than what was happening on the computer.

Uncle Michael came in the back door, making enough noise for two or three people. He wasn’t in a good mood, either.

“I want to know one goddamn thing!” he yelled. “What the hell is going on
now
!”

Fritz scooted up the stairs, surprised, because she’d wanted to know that very thing herself.

Your wife is two thirds
of what is going on. Your persistent, jealous wife, who can’t stand it because I won’t . . .

Joe wanted to say it. He wanted to say all of it, but he didn’t.

Ah, Catherine.

It was for her that he worked so hard to hang on to his temper. He was going to deal with his frustration straight on, the way she did. He had already been through what was turning out to be one of the worst nights of his life, and he wasn’t going to make it any worse.

If he could help it.

He moved past Michael to sit back down at the kitchen table.

“You want something to drink?” he asked him, stalling to give himself time to get some kind of grasp on his emotions.

“No, I don’t want anything to drink! I want—”

“Is Della at your place?” he asked, cutting in. He thought she was. Prayed she was.

“Yeah, yeah—where else would she be?”

Where indeed? Joe thought.

“So what happened?” Michael said. “Did she catch you doing it?”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Look Joey. All’s I know is Della is at my house in hysterics. Something about a woman in your bed?”

“That was Catherine,” he said mildly.

“She still here?”

“No, I took her home. I wanted her to stay, but she wouldn’t do it. This is all too much for her.”

“Too much for
her
?”

“It wasn’t what you think, Michael. Or what Della thinks.” Or what Margaret
wants
her to think.

He got up from the table because he suddenly knew what he needed to do. He’d given all the explanation he intended to give.

“Joe, where are you going?”

“I’m going to get my daughter, Michael. Tell Fritz and Charlie I’ll be back in a little while.”

He didn’t expect Margaret
to open the door for him, but she did. She was dressed in a tight, short skirt. She stood with her hands on her hips, her carefully cultivated bright red fingernails very evident against the black fabric of the skirt.

“Well,” she said lightly. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Where’s Della?” he asked and, though she stood back to give him room to come inside, he didn’t. He wasn’t taking any chances with Margaret until he knew that someone else was on the premises—not with Michael likely on his way.

She looked at him thoughtfully, and it occurred to him how much she must be enjoying this. He’d told her to get lost, and now she had him by the balls—or so she thought. It amazed him now that he’d once thought her attractive. He nearly smiled. If he’d gotten involved with her, he would have been doing exactly what she had accused him of doing—thinking wrong-headedly where Catherine was concerned.