The Surprise of His Life (5 page)

"We'll
have cake and coffee in the other room," Bunny said now that the meal was
in its final stages. All evening she'd chattered like a magpie and flitted
around like a hyperactive bee. She started to push back her chair again.
"I think I'll put on the coffee, so it'll be ready when we are."

"Don't
make coffee for me," Walker said. "I'll be up half the night if I
drink caffeine this late. And I don't need any cake." He patted his
stomach, which was plain flat and mean lean. "I'll have to do forty laps
in the pool as it is to take off these three pieces of chicken."

"I
don't want coffee, either, Mom," Lindsey said, placing the pitcher on the
table and sitting back down. She glanced over at Walker. "You still swim
regularly?"

"Yeah.
At least I try to." He grinned. "The older I get, though, the more
laps I have to do and the less results I see."

"Oh,
I don't know," Lindsey said, "it looks like you're holding your
own."

It
was foolish, Walker knew, but her compliment—it was a compliment, wasn't
it?—pleased him. It was nice to know that, at forty-seven, he hadn't fallen
completely apart at the seams. Okay, so a few seams were unraveling, but that
wasn't the same thing as falling apart.

"Are
you sure about the coffee?" Bunny asked, obviously itching to do
something. Anything.

Both
Walker and Lindsey assured her that they were. They then talked about the oil
business, the weather, Galveston tourism—everything but what was really on
their minds. Once the meal was finished, Bunny had the perfect excuse to spring
back into action.

"I'll
load the dishwasher," she said, shoving back her chair and starting to
scrape and stack the plates.

"Let
me," Lindsey said. "You and Walker—"

"No,
I can," Bunny protested, adding one plate to another as fast as her
unsteady hands would allow.

She
then reached for one of the tall crystal glasses beaded with cool condensation.
No sooner had she picked it up than it slipped from her fingers and fell to the
floor. In one deafening crash, it shattered into two dozen pieces. The noise
reverberated about the room like a gunshot. Bunny just stared, as though she
couldn't believe what she was hearing, as though she couldn't believe what she
was seeing. Slowly, with a frightening detachment, she squatted and began to
silently gather up the pieces. One by one. With the greatest of care.

"Let
me," Lindsey said, dropping to her mother's side.

The
older woman disregarded her daughter—in truth, she didn't even seem to have
heard her—and continued to pick up the shards of glass. "We bought these
when we married," she said tonelessly. "They cost fifteen dollars
apiece. That was a lot of money then. I bought one a month for eight
months...."

"Mother,
please move."

"All
these years, I've never even chipped one...."

"Mother,
please."

"I've
been so careful...."

"It's
only a glass," Lindsey said.

"It
just slipped out of my hand...."

"Mother,
watch it! You're going to... Ah, Mother, you cut yourself!"

As
though it were beyond her capability to understand, Bunny stared at the drop of
blood that had appeared on the pad of her thumb.

"I
cut myself," she mumbled.

Lindsey
looked up at Walker, silently asking for his help.

He
squatted beside the woman who'd been like a sister to him. "C'mon, Bunny,
let's go into the den." When she didn't acknowledge him in any way, but
rather continued to watch the drop of blood grow larger and larger until it
resembled a sad scarlet tear, Walker tipped her hand, forcing the glass to
tumble downward again. "Put the glass on the floor, babe, and let's go get
a Band-Aid. Okay?"

With
Walker's assistance, Bunny rose and tonelessly announced, "I broke the
glass."

"It
doesn't matter," Walker assured her. "It's only a glass."

"We
bought them when we married."

"I
know."

From
the doorway, he glanced back at Lindsey, who stood with the fragments scattered
about her feet. She looked as if a sculptor had chiseled her face into a pose
of concern.

"She's
all right," Walker said quietly.

Ten
minutes later, the glass cleared from the floor, the dishwasher loaded, Lindsey
found her mother, a Band-Aid wrapped about her thumb, stretched out on the den
sofa. She was sound asleep. Walker sat in the lounge chair, one leg negligently
squared over the other. He held an empty shot glass.

"How
did you get her to go to sleep?" Lindsey whispered.

Walker
raised the glass and said in the same hushed tones, "Exhaustion and booze
are a lethal combination."

"She
doesn't look like she's slept all week," Lindsey remarked.

"I'm
sure she hasn't."

"She
is
all right, isn't she?" Lindsey asked, suddenly, and desperately,
needing some reassurance.

"She
just needs to rest," Walker said, adding with half of a grin, "I
think you could use a little rest yourself." Earlier he'd thought how
unscathed she looked, how resilient youth was, but now he could clearly see
that the stressful week had likewise taken its toll on her. She looked tired.
Dog tired. Setting the glass down on the coffee table, he said as he rose,
"I'm gonna get out of here and let you go to bed."

"What
time is it?"

Walker
checked the leather watch at his wrist. It was an old watch, one his wife had
given him as a Christmas present, but old had a way of feeling familiar and
comfortable. "Nine thirty-three."

Lindsey
screwed up her face, as though trying to reason out a puzzle. "That makes
it..." She sighed, as though the puzzle were too much for her to mentally
negotiate in her fatigued state. "That makes it sometime tomorrow in
London."

"Well,
you need some sleep tonight," he said, starting for the door.

"I'll
walk you out."

Bunny
whimpered, a sound made in the throes of sleep, restless sleep.

Stepping
forward, Lindsey grabbed an afghan from the back of a nearby chair and draped
it across her mother. The gesture, Walker thought, was one of pure nurturing.
It said warm and caring as only a woman could. Over the years, he had missed
such tenderness—the sweetness, the gentleness, the lace and frills of the
feminine gender. Of late, he seemed to miss it even more. Watching Lindsey now,
he was acutely reminded of how empty he sometimes felt, of how long the
after-work hours could be, of how blunt were the rough edges of his masculine
life-style and how he sometimes ached for a woman's softness. Damn, he thought
suddenly, he
was
getting old. Old and maudlin.

As
he and Lindsey stepped outside, the summer heat swarmed about them, reminding
them that August was a hostile month in the South. As if in compensation, however,
gigantic stars glittered in bounteous plenty, while a slice of crescent moon, a
shiny scythe of platinum, rode high in the black sky.

Silently,
they headed for the car parked in the driveway. Despite the heat, Lindsey
folded her arms about her, as though chilled from some unseen cold. Either that
or she was merely holding herself together, Walker thought. Whichever, he
longed to comfort her.

"She'll
be okay," he said. "She's strong, stronger than even she realizes.
Trust me, she'll rise to the occasion."

Lindsey
glanced over at Walker. In heels, she stood almost eye-to-eye with him. Funny,
he'd never realized just how tall she was. But then, without heels, she'd be
considerably shorter, probably coming only to his chin.

"I
never really thought much about women's lib," Lindsey said. "I grew
up in the middle of it. I grew up reading and hearing about a woman's value. I
guess I just took it for granted. You know, all that bit about a woman having
her own identity, about a woman fulfilling her own needs, about a woman not
being dependent on a man for her happiness. For the first time, I understand
just how radical the movement was... at least for women of Mom's
generation."

Walker
knew exactly what Lindsey meant. "Your mom was from that generation—maybe
the last generation here in America—where women aspired only to grow up to be
wives and mothers. If a woman worked, it was usually just to put her husband
through school. Then she'd quit work and start the family."

"There's
nothing wrong with wanting to devote your life to being a wife and
mother," Lindsey said. "Each, both, are full-time, honorable jobs,
but it can be a deadly trap to fall into. If you don't develop your own
identity somewhere along the way. And I'm afraid Mother didn't. She was content
to be an extension of Dad."

They
had reached the car. Both now leaned back against it. Walker crossed one ankle
over the other. He grinned.

"I'll
tell you a secret," he said, "if you promise not to tell your Sisters
in Womanhood."

Lindsey
grinned, and her eyes sparkled brilliantly. "I just love secrets."

"Well,
this one could label me a traitor to my sex."

"And
get you shot at sunrise?"

Walker
thought the smile at her lips decidedly impish—irresistibly impish. He thought,
too, that if he were to be shot at sunrise, her smile might be the last thing
he requested to see. Somehow her enthusiasm for life had always had a way, a
pleasant way, of drawing him in. "Yeah, it could get me shot at sunrise."

"Oh,
great, then it is a good secret. Give."

"Men
are odd creatures," he began.

"Ah,
you've noticed," she interjected. The grin was back... if, indeed, it had
ever left. She ran a hand beneath her hair and raised it from her neck. It lent
to her impish illusion in a way Walker had no idea how to explain, except that
it looked like a ponytail on a teenager. Where had the mature woman disappeared
to?

"Do
you want to hear this or not?" he asked, faking impatience.

"Yes.
Men are odd creatures."

"Men
are odd creatures," he repeated. "A part of them wants a woman's
complete devotion. I guess that's the caveman part. While another part of them
is fascinated by a woman with her own strong personality—her own wants and
likes and interests. In fact, it's smothering, intimidating to have to give her
your life in order for her to have one. Marriage should be a blending of two
full, complete lives."

Lindsey
was no longer smiling, but had grown serious. "I'll tell you a secret if
you promise not to spread it around."

Walker
grinned. "If this gets out, are you likely to be shot at sunrise?"

"No,
but I'll be strung from the nearest tree."

"I
can hardly wait."

"Women
are strange creatures," she began. "While it's very important for a
woman to fulfill her own needs, the truth of the matter is that nothing is
quite as fulfilling as the right man in her life."

The
kid had disappeared and the woman had reappeared. Walker wondered, as he had a
hundred times before, what had led to the breakup of her marriage plans. Even
so, even considering his closeness to Lindsey, a part of him could hardly
believe he was asking what he was.

"I
take it, then, that Ken wasn't the right man?"

He
could tell that the question had caught Lindsey off balance. She didn't shy
away, however. In fact, he felt her gaze intensify, until it seemed like a warm
light penetrating him.

"No,"
she answered. Her steel-blue gaze continued to hold his for a fraction of a
second before she quickly changed the subject. "Dad didn't have to stay on
the rig, did he?"

Walker
let the topic of her canceled marriage go, though, oddly, he hadn't
particularly wanted to. While she had certainly answered his question, the
simplicity of her response invited other questions, questions like: What had
made her change her mind? Why had it taken her so long to realize that Ken was
wrong for her? Why did he, Walker, have the feeling that something—some
important something—was being left unsaid?

He
focused his attention on the subject she'd raised. He considered sparing
Lindsey's feelings and decided that he owed her the truth. "No, your dad
didn't have to stay on the rig."

"He
was just looking for an excuse to avoid seeing me, wasn't he?"

"Yes.
That would be my guess." Before she could say anything, Walker said,
"But try to understand his point of view. It's going to be difficult for
him to face you. He's got to explain why he's hurting your mother and why he's
hurting you." Walker sighed deeply. "Heaven only knows what I'd tell
Adam if I were in your father's shoes."

"The
truth is, though, that you wouldn't be in his shoes."

The
comment was an interesting one, made as it was with the force of such
certainty. "How can you be so sure?"

Lindsey
shrugged. "I just know." She added suddenly, "No, I do know why
I know. Loyalty is very important to you. You would never have betrayed your
wedding vows by wanting to break them."