Texas Heat (17 page)

Cranston peered over the small ridge to gaze down where his wife was pointing. “Looks like a glade of some sort.”

“It is. There's a small spring-fed pond that makes the ferns and bushes grow. There're some pines on the other side. It smells so good. All pungent and woodsy. Susan used to fall asleep on the fern fronds. We'd make little pallets. First the pine needles, then the ferns. Do you want to?” Maggie asked eagerly with a peculiar light in her eyes.

“Why the hell not!” Cranston shouted as he slid down the embankment, Maggie right behind.

They worked in companionable silence arranging their fragrant pallets. Maggie knew Cranston was having fun in spite of himself. It was probably the first time he'd actually put his penknife to use. She felt like a kid herself.

“I think mine's a little neater,” she said when they'd finished, “and I didn't have a knife. But I'm experienced. You have to be careful the way you break off a fern frond. Yours will do, but you left too much end on the frond; it's going to prick you. I'll spread the cloth and you can take out the goodies. Martha always outdoes herself for picnics.”

“She must have; this basket was a bastard to carry. I have a crick in my neck.”

“Don't complain, Cranston; just enjoy. I think both of us have forgotten how to do that. I'm getting on track now, and you should, too.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Cranston demanded.

“It means whatever you want it to mean. For me it meant time to stop and relax, take stock of myself. The only person who can make you miserable is yourself. The only person who can make you a workaholic or an alcoholic is yourself. In the end we all have to pay our dues. I'm lucky—I woke up in time to realize I didn't like my life. I was existing. I wasn't living.”

Cranston bit into a crisp chicken leg and chewed thoughtfully as he listened to his wife. An hour later he'd learned more about her than he'd known in all the years they'd been married.

“And another thing,” Maggie said, pointing her chicken leg in his direction. “I know why you're here. I know why you came the first time, too. Even if Cole hadn't called, you'd have found a way to get to me. There was a lot of hatred there, on both sides, when I left. You were going to try and get custody of Cole so it would look good on the divorce decree. And Cole played right into your hands. I also know that you have the opportunity right now to buy out the other partners in your firm, and that you're considering it. It'd be a real coup for you. . . . Ah, I was right. I can see it in your face.” Maggie shook her head. “What happened to your courtroom poker face?”

“I left it in New York,” Cranston said shortly.

“I left a lot of things in New York, too. This is a new life for me. As I said, I'm on track now. There's a lot I still have to do. I know now there are some things I can never make right again and I—I'll have to live with that.”

Cranston leaned back with his head cupped in his clasped hands. “Neither of us worked at the marriage. I'm willing to take my share of the blame. How in the hell did we ever manage to have a child?”

“If you want the details, I can give them to you.” Maggie laughed, then busied herself repacking the hamper. “Between the two of us we almost destroyed Cole, you know. The fact that we can talk now and actually be civil to each other is a big step.” She stopped for a moment. “I can't even believe you're here. When was the last time you actually took a vacation?”

“Maybe ten years. I can't even remember.”

“Was it all worth it?”

“Right now I'd have to say yes. Yesterday I probably would have said no. I am what I am, Maggie. The firm is my life. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is.”

“And if you do buy out the others and the firm becomes yours, what then?”

Cranston shrugged. “King of the heap. Come here and lie next to me.”

Despite herself and her better intentions, Maggie allowed Cranston to pull her down beside him and cradle her head against his shoulder. And even though it felt so right, so easy, to be here beside him this way, she still felt uneasy, as if she were being taken in somehow. “I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Cranston,” she forced herself to say, her voice light, a shade breathless. “We're being divorced, remember? By the way, when is the court date?”

“The first week in January sometime. I forget the exact date. Are you telling me,” Cranston asked as he propped himself up on one arm, “that you don't feel anything, anything at all?”

“I won't let you manipulate me. If and when I want to go to bed with you, it'll be because it's what I want, not what you manipulated me into doing.” She moved away from him a little. “Now, about the divorce. We have to discuss Cole. I don't want you just walking in here and snatching him away from me.”

Instantly Cranston lost all his amorous thoughts. “Cole is old enough to make his own decisions,” he said sourly. “A judge will talk to him, and it'll pretty much be what the boy wants.”

“Damn you, Cranston, that's not good enough! You gave up custody. What'll it take for you to keep it that way?”

“Absolutely nothing. Cole is the one who is unhappy. Look, Maggie, I don't like to take potshots at you, but you were an unfit mother. A drunken, unfit mother. Judges pay attention to things like that.”

“And what does that say for you? You wanted out so bad, you signed away your rights to your son to a drunken, unfit mother.”

“What that would mean in a courtroom is Coleman money intimidated and paid off. Next question?”

“You son of a bitch! Tell me you wouldn't do that to Cole and me.”

“We all do what we have to do. Those are your words, Maggie. I'm just repeating them.”

“Money, that's it, isn't it?” Maggie cried. “You need money to buy the firm. Using all of yours, paying bank loans, will strap you. Now, let's see, where can you get money at no interest? Who'd be sucker enough to go for a deal like that?”

“There's probably one or two people walking around who might go for a deal like that,” Cranston said smoothly. “Your mother, for instance. Isn't Thad going to run for office? I know some very influential people. You could come out smelling like a lily. On the other hand . . .”

“You bastard!”

“Is that the same as son of a bitch?” Cranston laughed.

“And to think I almost made love to you. You're vile and disgusting.”

“You're wonderful, exciting, and I feel as if there's an electric current running through me. Forget all this bullshit and make love with me,” Cranston said, pulling her back into his arms.

Maggie struggled. Cranston's heart was beating so fast, she thought he would collapse—or was it her own heart? It had been so long since she'd been with a man. Her struggles increased, then grew weaker as Cranston's arms pinned her to him.

She knew exactly what she was responding to—this was passion, not love. This was frustration, even desire, but it was not love. Over and over she repeated this to herself, issuing warnings that were overridden by the feel of his body pressing into hers, by the heat of his hands as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse.

“Don't fight me, Maggie. You know you want it as much as I do. We were always good together; we can be good again.” He was breathing into her ear; there was a desperate edge to his voice.

Maggie's fingers dug into the flesh of Cranston's back. What he was saying wasn't true. They weren't always good together. There had been times when he'd rejected her, refused her, played nasty little games to punish her. But there had been times when he'd deemed her “worthy,” times when her self-esteem had almost equalled his; those times had been good, very, very good. “Don't do this, Cranston,” she pleaded. “I don't want it; I don't want you!”

“Yes, you do. You know you do.” Suddenly he ripped her shirt apart, popping the buttons, revealing her breasts. “Look at yourself. Look at the way your body wants me to touch it, to kiss it, like this . . .” He lowered his head and took one pouting nipple into his mouth, running his tongue over the hard nub, biting it lightly. “I can feel the heat coming off you, Maggie.” His hand slipped between her legs, rising upward along the inside of her thigh. “You're already wet for me, aren't you? You were always wet for me, Maggie, and it always drove me crazy.” He was gasping the words against her mouth, claiming her lips, invading the soft recesses with his tongue. “Show me how wet you are, Maggs. Show me,” he demanded, working the zipper of her jeans, exposing her flesh to the filtered sunlight dappling through the trees.

Fireworks shot off inside Maggie's brain. Her mind was telling her one thing while her body demanded another. Against her will she was helping him, kicking her legs free of jeans and underpants. He laughed with satisfaction to find her wet and ready for him.

“You're no good, Cranston,” she breathed, “no damn good. But I want you, good God, I want you!”

“What do you want, Maggie?” he teased. “Show me. Tell me!”

“This!” She wriggled beneath him, finding him with her hand, touching the hardness of him. “Don't tease me. Don't do this to me,” she nearly cried, her voice a choked sob. “Take me now, for God's sake, take me now!”

When it was over, Maggie lay in Cranston's arms. He could be gentle now; the first chaotic rush of passion was over; they had both gotten what they wanted. Tears blurred Maggie's eyes. It shouldn't have happened; she never should have placed herself in this situation. She was ashamed of herself, ashamed of the need she had revealed to him. Another weapon, another triumph for Cranston.

“Why so quiet, Maggs?” he asked, nuzzling her ear. “Wasn't it good for you? It was wonderful for me.”

Maggie remained silent.

“Don't be sorry, Maggs,” he whispered, as though reading her thoughts. “It was inevitable. We haven't gotten over each other. You know it and so do I. This is the way it should have been all along. I can't tell you how sorry I am for the bastard I was to you. To you and to Cole. I don't know how you'll ever forgive me, but I'm begging you to try. Please try, Maggs, please.”

A rush of emotions rebounded through Maggie. How long she had waited to hear those words. How much she needed to hear them. Cranston continued to purr in her ear. She listened, she dreamed . . .
Family!

The loft in midtown Manhattan was a work of art, thanks
to its renovator, Adam Jarvis. He was a political cartoonist whose biting satire caused Washington to gasp as often as it cackled in glee. He was successful, semisatisfied with his life, and in love with his loft. When he'd purchased it years ago for an outrageous sum of money, he'd spent weekends renovating, and it was now pretty much what he wanted—open space, skylights, lush green plants, colorful furniture with brilliant cushions, shiny oak floors that were almost like mirrors. Probably the only thing it lacked was a woman's touch, and at times he wasn't sure even a woman could improve it, except to lend her presence to the vast openness. Four thousand square feet of space was a lot for one person. His only companion until Sawyer had arrived was a female cat with a ferocious appetite, named Marble. Probably, he was the only political cartoonist in the United States to walk a cat on a leash and carry a poop scoop.

Work wasn't going well today. It hadn't been going really well since Sawyer moved in. It wasn't that she bothered him; it was that she was so desperately unhappy and there was nothing he could do to ease her pain.

She arrived, this old high school chum and college buddy, in the middle of the night, tear streaks on her cheeks and lips quivering. She'd cried a lot that night and he'd held her like a father holding a daughter, but there were no words, no comfort he could give her.

He'd suggested she move in, and she'd agreed. Roommates only, though, she'd said. She'd insisted on paying her share of the expenses. And she did, to the penny. She didn't tidy up after him and he liked that. She didn't interfere in any way with his work schedule. Once she'd transferred to the Coleman New York office, she was up and out of the loft by seven in the morning; most times she didn't come home till eight or nine in the evening, taking her meals in restaurants if she ate at all. He noticed a weight loss and debated whether or not to speak to her about it. He personally liked to see a little meat on a woman's bones. Probably because he himself was so tall and rangy. He ate like a horse and never gained an ounce. Sawyer always said he looked like a string bean with curly red hair.

Sawyer. He'd adored her when he'd first met her and had fallen shamelessly in love with her soon after. Friends, she'd said. She had things to do and places to go. Relationships only got in the way of her goals. The years had gone by, and Adam remained a bachelor—by choice. He'd never been able to get Sawyer out of his thoughts. Time and distance had dimmed his memory a little, but he'd continued to love her. He loved her now. It was that simple. Only he couldn't tell her. She needed a friend, not some lovesick cartoonist.

The blank paper on the drawing board stared at him. For a moment he felt frightened. What if he was losing it? What if Sawyer and her pain consumed him to the point where he couldn't work? He stirred uneasily. Maybe he should water his plants or make something to eat. Hell, he could even put the dishes in the dishwasher. That's exactly what he should do, since the sink was filled to overflowing.

He got up and headed for the kitchen, his cat-green eyes peering across the dim space to where Sawyer was sitting writing a letter. She wrote a lot of letters these days. The only personal mail she received was from the boys in Texas and her grandmother in Vermont.

The Coleman clan was something he didn't like to think about. He was from Texas himself; he knew a thing or two about clans. His own family was so goddamn normal, it was disgusting. When he'd first met Sawyer, he used to wish the Jarvis family had a scandal, too, so he and Sawyer could be branded together. He'd been a staunch, feisty defender of Sawyer's parentage; he'd even squired her to dance recitals and plays, generally making an ass of himself. Oh, how he'd suffered at Sawyer's hands. God, how he loved her.

When the last glass had been added to the dishwasher, Adam filled the soap dispenser and turned it on. Jesus, the thing sounded like a jet cutting back on its engine power.

Sawyer came up behind him and tweaked his ear. “Susy homemaker,” she said fondly. “You got any apples?”

“Do I have any apples? Do I have any apples? Do I look like a supermarket? The answer is no. I have some oranges, though. Good, juicy ones. Real orange. No pits. I'll peel it for you.” Christ, how could he not have apples? Sawyer loved apples. “Wait a minute. I have some apple juice. No good, huh? Shit!”

“I'll take the orange. For God's sake, what's wrong with you?” Sawyer asked, noticing his agitation.

“Wrong? Nothing.” His hands were busily peeling the orange. He offered it to her as though it were a prize. “It's not a good orange unless the juice trickles down your chin,” he said inanely.

“I know. If the pulp doesn't stick in your front teeth, it's worth shit, right? That's what you always used to tell me at school. Remember the time Mrs. Snyder sent you out of class for picking your teeth?”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything. Sometimes I feel as though my head is so full it'll burst. . . . I don't want you looking like that at me. I'm not worth it,” Sawyer said flatly. “Forget it, Adam.”

Adam's heart pounded. Christ, was he that transparent? “Nick Deitrick was right. You are ugly. I wasn't sure until now.”

“You aren't exactly a prince, you know,” Sawyer said lightly. “Nick never knew which end was up.”

Adam grinned. “You always were a bitch.”

“That's true. But you were never a bastard.” She shook her head and turned away. “I'm sorry. I am grateful, Adam. I had no right coming to you with my problems and just moving in. I can leave if you—”

“Did I complain? You aren't bothering me. I'm worried about you, Sawyer. Listen, I'm ahead on the strip,” he lied. “Why don't we take off a few days and get some sun. Florida, California, wherever. You could use a break. You're killing yourself. Take a look in the mirror.”

“I can't take the time off. Besides, work is the best thing for me right now. I mean it, Adam, if I'm cramping your style—”

“You're not. I told you I was between ladies at the moment. A hiatus, if you will.”

“Okay.” Sawyer noticed the relief in his eyes. “You having trouble with the strip today?”

“Sort of. I have days when nothing I do seems right. I must have gone through a ream of paper already.”

“When all else fails, take a potshot at Reagan. Your fans'll love it. By the way, did I tell you Cole is now a fan of yours? He said you're sharp.” She yawned. “I think I'll turn in now. I'll wash the towels tomorrow; it's my turn.”

“Damn right it's your turn. I had to call Bloomie's to order more this morning.”

“Tell me you didn't do that!”

“Have I ever lied to you? I had thirty-six towels when you moved in here. There are thirty-six towels in the laundry room. All of them dirty. You're the one who uses a towel for her hair, one for her body, and one for her face.”

“You went into the laundry room and counted the dirty towels and didn't wash them? You didn't wash them, but you counted them! That's disgusting!”

“It's your turn,” Adam said loftily.

“How many did you order?”

“Three dozen.”

“You're nuts.”

“I know. Go to bed. I just got an idea.”

“Thanks for the orange and the conversation.”

“Anytime. Sleep well.”

 

In her room, Sawyer threw the letter she'd written to her grandmother into her handbag; she'd mail it on the way to the office in the morning. Then she undressed, throwing her clothes on a chair, and sat down wearily.

It was time for bed. Time for sleep. She was so tired; always so tired. It seemed a lifetime since she'd left Sunbridge like a thief in the night. For so long afterward she'd hoped, even prayed, that Rand would come after her. But he hadn't, and now nothing seemed worthwhile. Not even her job, which she loved. She was just going through the motions of living, unable to take pleasure in anything. Rand was all she thought about.

Humiliation and rejection. She fed on humiliation and rejection, knowing she would never be able to help herself: the need she felt could never be filled. But it didn't really matter now. Nothing mattered.

Tears of self-pity rolled down her cheeks. She made no move to stop them or wipe them away. Crying always made her sleep. Tomorrow she would simply wear her dark glasses. There wouldn't be anyone at the office to notice except the janitor. If only there were some way she could fill this aching void inside her. Would the time ever come when she could put all of this behind her and start a new life? Would she ever be whole again?

The satiny quilt caressed her bare shoulders as she snuggled beneath it. The loft creaked and then settled into quietness.

 

Two hours later, Adam checked on Sawyer. She was sleeping soundly, her hand cupped on her cheek. He went into the laundry room and started the washing machine filled with towels. He waited through the cycle, then tossed the load into the dryer. He drank three cups of coffee while he waited for the towels to dry. He folded three fluffy yellow towels and laid them gently at the foot of Sawyer's bed. The last thing he did before going to bed was write a note to himself to call Gristedes and order apples.

 

Maggie lay beside Cranston in Jessica's high bed. He was breathing lightly and felt warm beside her. She marveled at how quietly he slept while she tossed and turned restlessly. In the mornings, Cranston's side of the bed was smooth and unruffled, while hers looked as though a flock of chickens had been scratching and nesting.

Cranston's vacation was almost over. Day after tomorrow he would leave. She'd heard him speaking on the telephone, making arrangements with the office to ready his caseload and begin making appointments. Two weeks. A time of renewal, Maggie had tried to convince herself. A time to make a fresh start with Cranston, for them to get to know each other again; hopefully, to like each other. And it had almost worked.

Cranston had been saying all the right things at all the right times. She had responded to his mesmerizing eyes and his softly spoken words. Wanting and needing to believe, to trust. Oh, yes, she had to admit to herself that her needs for husband and family were very real. Husband, security, identity—they all meant the same thing. The divorce proceedings could be stopped at any time, or so Cranston said. He'd made it sound so tempting.

She looked over at him, resisting an impulse to brush the lock of hair off his forehead. She'd come so close to falling in love with him all over again. He'd as much as told her she could have it all—dutiful husband, full-time son, the entire ball of wax—if only she agreed to move back to New York with him, give up living at Sunbridge, turn her back on everything she loved, everything she'd fought for her entire life. Oh, and one thing more. Cranston's law firm. For a cool three million dollars it could be all his. All she had to do was supply the three million.

Maggie was a big girl now; she'd learned the rules of the game. The money didn't bother her. But Cranston did. If she went back to New York with him, she would soon become just another of his possessions, like his town car and his sailboat. There was every danger he would devour her again, as he had once before—telling her how to dress, what to say, how to behave, making her doubt herself, always feeling his disapproving eye. He would use her, and he'd use Cole if she allowed it.

Reaching across the pillow, Maggie gentled the stray lock of hair that gave Cranston such a boyish look. She supposed that all along, despite her bravado and heroic attempts to straighten out her life, she had secretly wanted the security of being Cranston's wife, to erase the rejection, to have a second chance at having a family, of belonging to her own little family. Yet despite his smooth words and heated passions these past two weeks, he had made no mention of love, of growing old together, of sharing. Things Maggie wanted, things Billie had found with Thad. With Cranston, Maggie would have an agreement, a contract. This for that. Whatever he wanted.

The mattress shifted slightly as Maggie swung her legs over the side. This wasn't what
she
wanted. She didn't want to be an extension of her husband; she wanted to belong to herself, to be admired for herself and loved for herself. It might even be exciting to see what else might be in store for Maggie Coleman Tanner on her own terms. If Cranston wanted her, he'd have to take her on those terms.

Maggie bent over slightly as her foot traced a pattern on the floor, searching for her slippers. When she felt herself drawn backward into Cranston's arms, she didn't struggle against it. It would be a very nice way to say good-bye.