Promise Me A Rainbow (45 page)

“You’re not going to talk me into this craziness of yours, Daddy,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk you into anything Della. I want to know why you feel the way you do. Catherine isn’t your mother, but you can’t blame her for that.”

“You don’t see anything, Daddy!”

“Then tell me. What is it I’m supposed to see?”

She didn’t answer him.

“I told you before that I could understand your feeling the way you do if Catherine was something besides what she is. But she’s kind, Della. She’s loving and she’s gentle—”

“Catherine is not all that wonderful, Daddy! She’s teaching pregnant girls, and she’s no better than they are. She’s pregnant, too, and she’s not married.”

“Who told you that?”

“Everybody knows it.”

“Who told you that!”

“A girl in that pregnant class! Maria something! Catherine Holben is some kind of cheap tramp. She was pregnant and you didn’t even know it!”

“I know, Della,” he said quietly. He felt so sorry for her. She was still more child than woman. She wanted to prove Catherine’s unworthiness to him so badly, she hadn’t recognized the significance of what she was saying—or his response to it. He saw on her face the instant she understood what he meant.

“No,” she said, getting up from the table. “No! If that’s true, I’ll leave here, Daddy! I’ll go live with Uncle Michael and Aunt Margaret.”

He looked into his daughter’s eyes. He offered her no apology; nothing could be changed by her threats.

“You’re my first child,” he said as gently as he knew how. He was going to hurt her, but he knew of no other way. “I love you dearly. Everything about you is important to me. But you’re not my entire life, Della. If I’ve made you feel that, if I’ve made you think that the world revolves around just you and that all the rest of the family doesn’t matter, then I’ve been wrong. The baby Catherine is carrying is mine.”

After parking on the street in front she stood for a moment on the sidewalk looking at the Mayfair windows before she untied the tree from the luggage rack.

Very nice, she thought. There were decorations in every living room window except hers, and she was about to remedy that. No one could accuse the Mayfair tenants of lacking the Christmas spirit.

She began untying the tree.

“I’ll do that.”

She looked around. Jonathan took the end of the rope she’d already freed out of her hand. She stood back and let him do it, because her fingers were cold and because she couldn’t think of any reason not to. He was wearing a suit and tie. He must have just come from work.

“Still the same old ugly tree, I see,” he said.

“Still,” she agreed.

“But you like it,” he added, replaying the conversation they’d had every year they’d been married.

“Exactly,” Catherine answered. “So, Jonathan. What do you want?”

He laughed. “Catherine, why don’t you quit beating around the bush and
really
cut through the social amenities?”

“I thought I was,” she said lightly. She helped get the tree off the roof of the car, but he insisted on carrying it—a first for him. He’d never done it when they were married.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” he said as they went into the Mayfair.

“Again? I thought you were going to tell me you’d made a terrible mistake and you wanted to get remarried.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. He looked so odd—a pained expression that was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“So how
are
you doing?” he asked, following her up the first flight of stairs with the tree.

I’m finally pregnant, Jonathan. Pregnant and alone.
“I’m fine,” she said.

“You look tired.”

“Ah, well. I’ve been working hard lately.”

“So how’s Pat?”

“She’s in the hospital again with pneumonia, but she’s been doing better the last day or so. She might even get home for Christmas.”

“She still separated from Don?”

“Yes. Jonathan, what is it with the questions?”

“I . . . never heard from you.”

“Did you expect to?”

“Catherine?” Her name echoed in the stairway, and she thought at first it was Jonathan who had spoken. She looked up. Joe was standing on the third-floor landing.

He came down the steps. “I need to talk to you, Catherine. It’s important.”

She stared at him, her eyes searching his. If anyone looked tired, it was Joe.

“It’s important,” he said again.

“All right,” she answered, because she believed him. “Just put the tree down there,” she said to dismiss Jonathan. “I’ll get it later.”

But Jonathan was going to be obstinate. He looked from one of them to the other, and it was apparent to Catherine that he didn’t like what he saw. For once the logic that had served him so well as a successful accountant failed him. He’d once been Catherine’s husband, and he was clearly baffled that she would defer to someone else. “You can’t leave it on the stairs, Catherine. One of these little old ladies might fall and break her neck.”

“I’ll take it then,” Joe offered.

“
I’ll
take it,” Jonathan insisted. “What are you trying to do, Catherine, get rid of me?”

“Yes,” she said truthfully.

He stood and stared at her, because apparently he had thought he was making a joke.

“You really want me to go so you can talk to this guy?”

“Yes,” she assured him. “I do.”

“Who is he?” he asked, as if Joe weren’t standing three steps away.

“None of your business, Jonathan. Thank you for carrying the tree and for your kind inquiries. If there’s nothing else you want, then Merry Christmas and good-bye.”

She attempted to drag the tree the rest of the way.

“Catherine, I’ll call you,” Jonathan said, and Catherine gave him an incredulous look. There must be some trouble with Ellen, she thought. She was sorry about that, but she was not acting as a low-budget marriage counselor.

“Jonathan doesn’t approve,” Joe said, taking the tree from her.

“He’s never liked my taste in Christmas trees,” Catherine said, choosing to be obtuse.

“That’s not what I meant.” He held up the tree. “Where did you get this—Charlie Brown Tree Sales?”

“You, too?” she said as she unlocked the door.

He smiled. “Hey, I’m a builder. I like cedar. It lasts forever and it smells good.”

She returned his smile. She’d forgotten that about him, that he liked things that lasted forever. But then she remembered that she couldn’t stand here and talk with him like this. It was too hard, too hard not to reach for him, too hard not to tell him how much she needed him.

His smile faded and his eyes probed hers. “Are you okay?”

She looked away and pushed open the door. “I’m okay. What did you want to talk about?”

He followed her inside, setting the tree in the corner. “I know a little girl who would love to help decorate this thing.”

“Joe, don’t. Please. Just tell me whatever it is you need to tell me.”

He reached up as if he were going to touch her, but he let his hand drop. “I had a talk with Della. She says your class knows you’re pregnant.”

Catherine looked at him sharply. “How could they know that?”

“I don’t know. She says Maria told her.”

Maria
.

Maria, who always seemed to be around when she’d felt nauseous or faint. Maria, who had been pregnant twice herself. It couldn’t have been too hard for her to figure out.

“Catherine, I’m sorry. I just thought you ought to know.”

“What’s happening with Della?” she asked abruptly.

“I told her the truth. I told her the baby was mine.”

“Oh, Joe.”

“Catherine, she’s going to know sooner or later. She might as well hear it from me.”

“Then I don’t have to ask you how things are at home, do I?”

He gave a small shrug. “She’s . . . staying at Michael’s again. It was hard for her to find out her old man is . . . human. Well, I have to go pick up Charlie. He’s at a computer club meeting. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She shook her head

He came closer. “You’ll tell me if there is, won’t you? I’ll do anything I can for you.”

“I don’t need anything, Joe.”
Except you
.

He gave her an abrupt, awkward hug, because he couldn’t stand not touching her any longer and because
he
needed it.

“I love you, Catherine,” he said against her ear, his voice cracking as he said it. “Don’t you forget it.”

He didn’t give her time to say anything. He let her go and quickly turned and left, pulling the door closed behind him. He paused once as he hurried down the stairs, half hoping the door would open and Catherine would call him back.

She didn’t, but he had no time to feel disappointment. Jonathan was standing on the first landing.

Shit
, he thought. As if he didn’t have enough problems. Now he was going to have to stand here and pass some kind of inspection from Catherine’s ex-husband.

“I’m Jonathan Rusk,” he said. “I used to be married to Catherine. For some reason she didn’t bother to introduce us.”

“Joseph D’Amaro,” he said, trying to get by. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Look, D’Amaro. I’m not going to hedge here. I want to know what your business is with Catherine.”

“I thought she already explained that. If Catherine wants you to know, she’ll tell you.” He tried to get past again, but Jonathan caught him by the arm.

“What is it with you?” Joe asked, jerking his arm free. “I’m not talking to you about Catherine. Now get out of my way.”

“I want to know what you’re doing here! I want to know what you’re doing with Catherine! You’re not the kind of man she’d have anything to do with!”

“I’m not? Well, if you say so, Jonathan.” He tried to get by again, but the son of a bitch wasn’t going to let him do it. Joe suddenly smiled. “Rusk? Your name is Rusk? Catherine wouldn’t take anything from you, would she? Not even your name.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s a Holben. It means you’re the one driving the big Mercedes and she was the one walking.”
And my baby’s not going to be a goddamn Rusk.

“Listen, you!” Jonathan said, grabbing Joe by his shirtfront. “I know Catherine. I was married to her for a long time. She’s afraid of you.”

“What, are you crazy? Catherine is not afraid of me!”

“I want to know what you’re doing here!”

Joe’s temper flared. He had had enough of this crap, and he tried to pry Jonathan’s fingers loose. “If you don’t get your hands off me, Jonathan, one of the things I’m doing here will be kicking your ass out into the street!”

But he had no chance to carry out his threat. Catherine came running down the stairs. She was barefoot, a sprig from the red cedar tree in her hand.