Promise Me A Rainbow (48 page)

“Oh, yeah. I remember. She said if God kept on sending her husbands, she guessed she could bury them.”

Joe laughed. “When did she say that?”

“At the barbecue. She told Catherine. Joe, how come we have to have Mrs. Webber come tonight?”

“Because Della isn’t here and I might be late.”

“How late?”

“Fritz, I don’t know . . . late. I don’t want to have to worry about you and Charlie.”

“Charlie and me can look after ourselves. Della wasn’t that much help, you know.”

“Humor me on this, will you?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means don’t bug me.”

“Oh . . . did you use your after-shave I gave you for Father’s Day. Catherine’ll like that. You know how I know?”

“I told her I bought that for you for Father’s Day, and she said that was her very favoritest kind.”

“Good. I need all the help I can get.”

“Yeah, because you shot off your big mouth and Catherine might not talk to you.”

“Exactly,” Joe admitted. “So you think I look good?”

“
Real
good, Joe.”

“Great! I hear Mrs. Webber at the back door. Run let her in—wait . . . give me a good-luck kiss.”

He got out with a few more good-luck kisses, one from Mrs. Webber—and a good-luck handshake from Charlie.

“You remember, Pop,” Charlie said. “The reputations of all us D’Amaro men are at stake here.”

“I’ll remember,” he said. Armed with all those good wishes
and
his killer aftershave, he was definitely going to give it his best shot.

He rode past some of Wilmington’s restored Victorian houses on his way to Catherine’s, looking at the Christmas decorations as he went down the tree-lined street. God, he’d wanted to make enough money to move the family into one of these fine old houses, but there was no way he’d ever do it. Della would soon be ready for college.

Della. She just would
not
listen. And it hurt, this estrangement from his child. He’d been so tempted to tell her about Margaret, to try to make her understand that Margaret had motives of her own, motives other than saving him from a supposedly unsuitable woman like Catherine. But telling Della would have left her totally alone, with no support at all. Della was wrong, and he thought she knew it, and that made both their pain so much worse. He parked in front of the Mayfair, looking up at the third floor as he crossed the street. Catherine’s windows were dark, but he went inside anyway, half expecting Mrs. Donovan to ask him to leave. He wondered how many times Jonathan had been back since their shoving match on the landing. He could feel sorry for Jonathan—if he didn’t feel so sorry for himself.

Mrs. Donovan wasn’t patrolling the foyer when he went in. He knew there was no point in his being here if Catherine had gone out someplace, but he didn’t want to be anywhere else. He needed her, and when there was no answer to his knocking, he sat down on the top step and waited.

It was after nine—well after—when he heard Catherine coming up the stairs. He sat there, uneasy that she might be with Jonathan—or someone else, for that matter. But she was alone. She had a paper bag in her arms and he was reminded of the first time he’d done this—waited on the stairs outside her door for her to come home. She had looked so pretty to him that day, a soft, barefoot woman with an easy smile. She looked pretty to him now—beautiful—and sweet and pregnant with his child. He saw that she was surprised to see him, but she didn’t back away. She came on up the stairs, her eyes holding his, and he took the bag from her, just as he had the other time.

“I lied,” he said quietly.

“About what?”

He gave an offhand shrug. “When I said I wouldn’t come back unless you asked me to—stuff like that.”

“Oh. So . . . do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

Because I love you with all my heart,
he wanted to say, but he didn’t.

“Because I need your company. Because I need a friend. I’ve checked all my friends, and it looks like you’re the best one I’ve got.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Well,” she said finally. “I guess you’d better come in, then.”

She unlocked the door and he followed her inside, standing in the dark holding the paper bag while she went around turning on lamps and the lights on her odd little Christmas tree. She took off her coat and hung it in the foyer closet. She was dressed up, a pretty, dark red dress he’d never seen before.

“You look nice,” he offered. He wanted to ask her where she’d been, but he didn’t. If she’d been somewhere with Jonathan, he didn’t want to know.

“So do you.
Very
nice,” she added as she took the bag from his arms.

He grinned, feeling himself blush. He was too damned old to blush. He knew exactly why he was wearing the suit. He’d wanted her to see that he cleaned up good, that she could take him anyplace, anyplace at all—if she wanted.

“Feels like you’ve been buying apples again,” he said of the paper bag.

“No this is my Christmas bag. Did you have Christmas bags when you were little in Dorchester?”

“No,” he said, looking into her eyes.

“You had a deprived childhood, then. When I was little, they gave these out at church . . . see?” She opened the bag so he could look inside. “Apples, oranges, tangerines, walnuts and pecans in the shell, chewing gum, one Hershey’s chocolate bar, one Snickers, one Three Musketeers, two pencils, and a box of raisins.” She laughed up at him. “Absolute heaven. I told Pat about them once, and she gave me this one for Christmas—you can pick whatever you want.”

“Well, that’s easy,” he said. “I want you.”

Her smile faded. “Joe, I . . .”

Wrong
, he thought immediately.
You’ve said the wrong thing, D’Amaro.

He looked into her eyes.
Catherine, don’t look at me like that!
No wonder Jonathan thought she was afraid of him.

“Catherine, you don’t think I’d . . . hurt you or anything like that, do you? You’re not afraid of me, are you? I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

He wasn’t quite sure how it came about—he didn’t care—but she was in his arms suddenly, the Christmas bag mashed between them. He put it aside, setting it on the floor, so he could feel her against him. She hugged him tightly. She felt so good. He put his face into her neck. She smelled so good.

She leaned back to look at him. “I’m not afraid of you, Joe. Why would you think that?”

“Jonathan said—”

“Jonathan doesn’t know anything about this,” she said, interrupting. “If I’m afraid of anything, it’s myself. I don’t want to make everything worse for you because I—” Abruptly, she turned away, picking up the Christmas bag and taking it into the kitchen. He followed after her.

“Because you what?” he asked.

She shook her head. She was still clutching the bag. No. She wasn’t going to answer that.

“There’s one thing I’m afraid of,” he said, and she looked at him. “I’m afraid you’ll go to Jonathan for help.”

She was about to protest, but he held up his hand.

“I don’t think you would for yourself, but you would for the baby, if you thought you had to. I don’t want you to do that, Catherine. I want you to come to me. I love you, and I want you to come to
me
. I want us to get married. We aren’t going to solve any of our problems apart. You know that.”

She set the bag down on the table. “I don’t want to make you unhappy.”

“Well, what the hell do you think I am now, Catherine! I’m telling you, our being apart is making everything worse. The only way we can work things out is together. That way we can take care of the new baby, and Fritz and Charlie, and each other.”

“And Della?”

“I won’t lie to you. Della’s leaving breaks my heart. She’s my daughter. I love her. But she’s left the family by her own choice. I’ve talked to her. I’ve tried everything I know. But I haven’t done anything to make her leave but love you, and I’ll be damned if she’ll make me feel guilty for that.”

“Joe, I don’t want to break up your family!”

“Catherine, it’s too late to worry about that. Della’s already gone. She won’t come back now because she’s painted herself into a corner and she’s too proud to admit it. I can’t help her with that except to tell her I care about her and I want her to be a part of the family again.”

“How can it work, Joe? Everything’s wrong.”

“Not everything. We had a family meeting. Fritz and Charlie are on our side. And I love you.” He smiled at her and reached out, lightly touching her cheek. “I didn’t intend to, Ms. Holben. All I wanted to do was sell a couple of gnomes. I know, I know—you weren’t exactly looking for me, either. You bought the damn things, and now look at you—you’ve got me and three and a fifth kids ready to shake up your life. But that’s the way it goes, I guess. I can’t give you much but aggravation. And love. A whole lot of love. The business is doing all right now. We wouldn’t be rich, though. I don’t know that we’d ever be rich, but we’d be happy. And you love me, too,” he assured her, but looking into her eyes, his self-assurance faded. “Don’t you?” he asked quietly.

It scared him that she wasn’t answering. “Don’t you?” he said again.

“Joe, yes. I love you. But I don’t know what to do. When I look at you, you’re so sad. It’s my fault—”

“Catherine, it’s not your fault.
It’s not
.” He reached out to take her hands, leaning forward to give her a quick, reassuring kiss on the mouth. But he needed her. He couldn’t be this close and not . . .

He looked into her eyes. He never had been good with words.

Can you see, Catherine? Can you see how much I need you?

“Joe,” she murmured. She reached up to touch his face, her forehead resting against his.

He nuzzled her cheek, his eyes closing. He was here and she didn’t seem to mind. His mouth brushed over hers, and she leaned into him. Then he kissed her, the way he’d wanted to for days and days. He lips parted under his, letting him probe the soft recesses of her mouth, letting him taste her and taste her . . .

He loved her so!

She gave a soft moan, and he felt as if it had been his. It took his breath away. He’d been apart from her so long, and she was so close to him now, so close and loving. He slid his hand upward to cup the softness of her breast, to press her body into his so she could feel how much he wanted her.
Catherine, my sweet Catherine, ah, God! Hold me tight so I can stand it.

He suddenly let her go and stepped away. His knees were weak and his hands were trembling. He wanted her so bad! But he wanted to take her to bed for the rest of his life, not just now, and they had to get this settled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

She looked at him doubtfully.

He managed the barest of smiles as he tried to calm his labored breathing. “Well, I
did
mean to do it, because I want to make love with you. I
always
want to make love with you, but now I want you to answer me. Will you marry me?”’

She looked at him, her arms folded across her breasts, as if she had no one in the world to comfort her but herself.

“I’m glad you’re pregnant, Catherine,” he said quietly and her eyes probed his for the truth. He wasn’t afraid of what she’d see, because he wasn’t lying to her. He would never lie to her, and for once he thought he just might have said the right thing, because her look softened and her eyes slid away. He could see it and feel it—her sense of relief. “Marry me,” he said. “I want you to marry me.”