The Mother of His Child Page 3

  Beneath a very real sorrow for an unknown woman who had died far too young, Marnie was aware of anger, red-hot and seething. Kit had been left, tragically, without a mother. And yet Cal had dared to warn off the woman who had borne Kit all those years ago, a woman who had, surely, some claim on his honesty.

  Some claim on Kit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ON MONDAY morning, just before eight, Marnie arrived at the fork in the road that led out of Burnham. Moseley Street, the sign said. She flicked on her signal light and turned left. She was driving her best friend Christine’s small white Pontiac; she’d phoned Christine last night and asked if they could trade cars for the day.

  Cal Huntingdon wouldn’t even notice if a white Pontiac drove past his house.

  She checked the odometer, her heart hammering in her chest as loudly as a woodpecker on a tree. The Huntingdons lived about a kilometer down the road, according to the man at the gas station. It was a pretty road, following the curve of the bay and lush with evergreens. Point-seven kilometers, point-eight, point-nine. And then Marnie saw the cedar-shingled house on the cove, the mailbox neatly lettered “Huntingdon.”

  She braked. Although a dark green Cherokee was parked in front of the house, there was no one in sight, neither Cal nor a young girl hurrying up the driveway on her way to school.

  It was the house of her dreams.

  Marnie’s mouth twisted. She’d had a lot of dreams over the years, several of which she’d made real—by guts, determination and plain hard work. But she was a long way from realizing this particular one. For the house spelled money.

  It was a low bungalow, following the sloping contours of the land and taking full advantage of a spectacular view of a rocky cove. Pines and hemlocks shaded the roof; through the bare limbs of maples, sunlight glittered on the waves. The weathered cedar shingles blended perfectly with the surroundings. The chimney was built of chunks of native stone, while the slate pathways were the color of Cal’s eyes.

  It was perfect, Marnie thought. Utterly perfect.

  In terms of material goods, Kit was obviously in another league from Marnie. Discovering she didn’t like this thought one bit, Marnie put her foot to the accelerator and continued down the road, reluctantly noticing that the Huntingdon property extended several hundred feet farther along the cove. But why was she surprised that Kit had been adopted into money? She’d known all along that her mother worshiped money and even more the power it conferred; Charlotte wouldn’t have placed her grandchild with anyone who lived in poverty.

  In her will, Charlotte had left Marnie the sum of one hundred dollars. The rest of her estate had been allocated to build a town hall and a library in Conway Mills. The will had been dated the day of Kit’s birth; a matter of hours after the birth, when Marnie’s world was disintegrating around her, Charlotte had informed Marnie that she was disinherited.

  At the time, money had been the furthest thing from Marnie’s thoughts. But at the reading of the will, only a month ago, Charlotte’s unchanging bitterness toward her only daughter had had the power to wound deeply. Forgiveness, thought Marnie, was the most difficult of concepts. Had she herself ever really forgiven her mother?

  Irritably, she wriggled the tightness from her shoulders and turned around in the third driveway beyond the Huntingdon place. As she drove past the bungalow again, there still was no sign of any occupants. Time for phase two, she decided grimly, and headed back into town. Ten minutes later, she was tucked into a window booth in the coffee-and-doughnut shop on the corner of the street by the junior high school. If she was right, Kit would walk along this street.

  The sun, fortunately, was shining from a cloudless sky and again it was overly warm for late April. Marnie was wearing her largest pair of sunglasses and a big floppy hat under which she’d tucked most of her hair; it also hid her face. She’d taken the precaution of buying the daily paper in case she had to hide behind it.

  She felt excruciatingly nervous. It was one thing to drive past the house where Kit lived; quite another to actually see her daughter.

  Although she hated horror movies, Marnie loved James Bond. This morning, she was discovering she’d make a lousy espionage agent. She felt as though everyone in the place was staring at her and as though Kit, were she to go past the window, would pick her out unerringly.

  She couldn’t allow that to happen. Wouldn’t allow it. All she wanted was to see her daughter. For the very first time. See if she was happy.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Last night, she’d phoned the principal of her school to tell him some urgent family business had come up and she needed the next day off. So here she was on a Monday morning in a coffee shop in Burnham when she should have been in the school library sorting books and checking out the computers.

  Kids were now straggling past the coffee shop in loose groups, some with headsets, all in the regulation designer-label jeans and jackets with bright logos. Marnie sipped on coffee that could have been lye and unfolded the newspaper. Maybe Kit had a friend at the other end of town and walked to school a whole different way. Or else she might go by so fast Marnie wouldn’t have time to recognize her.

  She certainly couldn’t chase after her.

  A group of girls came around the corner of the building, their heads together, their laughter loud enough to be heard through the glass. One of them was tall with red hair, curly red hair that bounced in the sunlight.

  Turn around, Marnie prayed. So I can see your face. Oh, please, turn around.

  As though the girl had heard her, she pointed at the array of doughnuts in the showcase and said something Marnie couldn’t catch but that made all the other girls laugh. The girl’s face was almost a replica of Marnie’s, right down to the tilted nose and high cheekbones, except that her eyes were a warm brown. The color of Terry’s eyes.

  It was Kit. Unquestionably it was Kit.

  Then, to her horror, Marnie saw the whole group veer toward the door of the coffee shop. She grabbed her newspaper and lifted it, hiding her face, her fingers trembling. Although she braced her elbows on the table and willed her hands to steadiness, they wouldn’t obey her.

  The bottom of the door scraped on the black plastic floor mat. “What kind of doughnut, Kit?” one of the girls called out.

  “Double chocolate. Maybe that way I’ll stay awake in math class.”

  The others giggled. Another voice said, “Boston cream for me. Kit, did you study for the test?”

  “Yeah…my dad made me.”

  One of the others groaned in sympathy. “My mum did, too. I wanted to watch a MuchMusic video instead.” In a wicked parody of an adult’s voice, she went on, “‘Not until the weekend, Lizzie.’ Mothers are such a drag.”

  “Shut up, Lizzie,” Kit flared.

  “Oops, sorry,” Lizzie said. “I’ll have a maple cream and share it with you, Kit.”

  “Okay. You know what? I’m going to ace that test,” Kit said confidently. “I’ve got to keep my marks up or I’m off the basketball team. Dad said so.”

  Kit’s voice was light, higher-pitched than Marnie’s. Willing herself to stop shaking, Marnie listened as the girls paid for their doughnuts and trooped out of the coffee shop. Over the top of the paper she caught one last glimpse of Kit. She was taking a big bite out of the double chocolate doughnut; she was wearing Levi’s and a baggy purple sweatshirt. Marnie’s favorite color was purple.

  Marnie sat still, gazing blindly at the newsprint, trying to assimilate the fact that after thirteen years she had actually seen her daughter. Heard her voice. Had evidence, she thought wryly, of Kit’s quick temper, so like Marnie’s. Kit hadn’t liked Lizzie’s remark about mothers. Did that mean Kit still missed her mother? It must.

  What had Jennifer Huntingdon been like? Warm and loving? Strong-willed? Happy?

  A gang of teenage boys rocketed through the door, their energy making Marnie wince. She listened as they argued about doughnuts, then watched them leave with relief. What did K
it think about boys? Was she interested in them yet? Or did basketball interest her more?

  You’ll never know the answer to those questions, Marnie. Because Kit is Cal’s daughter, not yours.

  Slowly, Marnie lowered the newspaper, trying desperately to ignore the storm of emotion engulfing her whole body. Now what? she wondered. What do I do next?

  When she’d decided last night that she was going back to Burnham despite Cal’s warnings, she hadn’t gotten any further than seeing Kit. Well, she’d seen her. Seen her friends, noticed her clothes, heard her voice. That’s it, Marnie. Kit’s happy enough, even if she does still miss her mother. Certainly she’s well looked after financially. You’ve done everything you can do. Now you’ve got to return to Faulkner and stay away from Burnham. The last thing you can risk is bumping into your daughter on the street. You can’t do that to her. It would be utterly unfair.

  Moving like a woman much older than thirty, Marnie left her unfinished coffee and her newspaper on the table and walked out of the shop. She was going to drive home and cry her eyes out for the second time in as many days. She hardly ever cried. But that was what she was going to do.

  It didn’t make much sense to cry—after all, she now had a face and a voice for her daughter where yesterday she’d had nothing—but she knew she had to do it. She ached all over, as though someone had pounded her body mercilessly in her sleep: an ache both physical and emotional, the same ache she’d suffered in that hospital bed in the private clinic so many years ago.

  As she turned up a side street, she passed from sunlight into shade. She didn’t see the man standing statue-still between the two nearest buildings; rather, she was reaching into the pocket of her jeans for the keys to Christine’s car, her mind anywhere but on her surroundings. Not until a tanned, strong-fingered and unmistakably masculine hand fastened itself around her elbow was she jerked out of her reverie. “You’re coming with me,” Cal Huntingdon said in a clipped voice infused with rage, “and don’t bother arguing.”

  With a strange sense of inevitability, Marnie looked up. Had she really thought she’d get away with her caper in the coffee shop? Saying the first thing that came into her head, she muttered, “I didn’t see the Cherokee.”

  “I parked it on the next street. I didn’t see that wreck you’re driving, either. Come on.”

  He was pulling on her arm as though she were eight years old. She said coldly, “I’m perfectly capable of walking to your car. Let go.”

  “No.”

  Although he hadn’t loosened his grip, Cal did stop tugging so hard. His fingers were warm; as she marched along beside him, Marnie discovered to her dismay that she liked the contact. Liked his height, the way his gray shirt was rolled up to his elbows, the tanned column of his throat. Scared to death by this realization, she said defiantly, “You didn’t see my car because I borrowed a friend’s.”

  “I figured you’d pull a stunt like that. Which is why I was watching for you.”

  “Don’t you think you should be at work? To pay for the very expensive house I drove past this morning?”

  “It’s paid for, Marnie Carstairs. Every shingle and tree root. I’m surprised you didn’t bang on the door to check out the furniture.”

  To her annoyance, Marnie couldn’t come up with a retort that would sound anything other than pettish. They’d reached the Cherokee; she climbed in and fastened her seat belt. As Cal turned on the ignition, she said with deliberate provocation, “Where are we going? Home for coffee?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” he growled, then pulled out into the street.

  “Or are you planning to fling me over the nearest cliff?”

  “I’ve thought of it, believe me,” he said tightly. “We’re getting the hell out of Burnham and then we’re going to have a talk. During which I shall make a few things clear to you. In the meantime, why don’t you just shut up?”

  It seemed like good advice. Marnie gazed out the window as though the drugstore across the street was the most interesting building she’d ever seen.

  Once they’d left Burnham, Cal turned onto the highway that would lead eventually to Faulkner Beach. When he came to the picnic spot where Marnie had eaten her lunch the day before, he wheeled into it. There were no other cars there. Why would there be? thought Marnie. Most people don’t picnic for breakfast. He even chose the same table as she had.

  She slid out of the Cherokee and sat down on top of the table, facing the sea, her feet resting on the bench. The buds were still tight on the trees, although a song sparrow was piping its melody from a nearby birch. The ocean glinted as though it were alive, the waves chuckling among the rocks. “No cliffs,” she said. “That’s a relief.”

  Cal stationed himself in front of her, his back to the water. Shoulders hunched, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, he looked at her unwaveringly. His gray shirt was open at the throat as though he was immune to the cool ocean breeze; his hair shone with cleanliness, and he was clean shaven. He did not, Marnie noticed, look the slightest bit amused by her pert remark. Not that she really felt pert. She wasn’t sure how she felt.

  She’d probably find out in the next few minutes. Cal Huntingdon would see to that.

  Without saying a word, Cal reached out and pulled her dark glasses off her nose, then folded them carefully and put them on the table beside her. Then he undid the cord on her hat, the back of his hand brushing her chin, and took the hat off, placing it on the table, too. Her hair tumbled around her ears. And the whole time, his eyes were intent on her features.

  Her lashes flickered involuntarily. His face was so close to hers she could see the small white scar over one eye and catch the faint mint scent of his aftershave.

  She’d expected a tirade from him. Not this.

  She had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

  Marnie stared back at him, forcing herself to keep her hands loose in her lap and struggling to hide her inner trembling. His action, so unexpected, had broken through a boundary that she guarded fiercely. Her voice faltering, she said, “What you just did—that’s got nothing to do with Kit.”

  Cal didn’t bother denying it. “The sun in your hair…it’s like little strands of copper.”

  The timbre of his voice, dusky as red wine, brought a flush to her cheeks. His eyes now looked more blue than gray and not at all like slate. She found herself gazing at his mouth, a generous mouth, cleanly sculpted, and wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. To kiss him back.

  He said levelly, “Don’t worry, I’m thinking exactly the same thing.”

  Kiss him? She must be out of her mind. Cal was the enemy, the man determined to keep her from her daughter. Marnie shrank back. “Stay away from me.”

  Thrusting his hands into his pockets again, Cal said in a raw voice, “What’s the matter? Not part of your game plan, Marnie?”

  He’d gone so fast from what she would’ve sworn was desire to what she knew was rage that she felt dizzy. Which emotion was real? Only the anger? Had the desire been merely a facade? She rested her palms flat on the table, needing the solidity of wood to give her some kind of balance, and said with as much dignity as she could muster, “You took me by surprise.”

  “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure,” he said with heavy irony, “if I don’t believe you. I think it would take a lot to surprise you. When I stationed myself on the street where Kit walks to school, I was telling myself I was every kind of a fool. You’d said you wouldn’t do anything to harm her— I assumed that meant you’d stay away from Burnham. Not risk her meeting you and seeing the resemblance between you. In other words, I trusted you.” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “But I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re not to be trusted. This morning, you put yourself in a situation where you ended up twenty feet away from my daughter. I’d call that taking a risk, wouldn’t you?”

  Her own temper rose to meet his. “So we’re talking about trust, are we, Cal? Why didn’t you tell me you’re a widower?�
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  Visibly, he flinched. “How did you find that out?”

  “I asked. At the gas station in Burnham last night.” She raised her chin. “I don’t like being ordered around.”

  “Not even when it’s for the good of your daughter?”

  “You have to allow me some part in that decision.”

  “I didn’t tell you I’m a widower for the very obvious reason that I wanted you out of town. Out of my life. Mine and Kit’s.”

  Marnie pushed her palms hard against the wooden table; his eyes were those of a man in torment, his jaw an unyielding line. How he must have loved his wife: a realization that filled her inexplicably with envy. She’d never known that kind of love and doubted she ever would. Forcing herself to continue, she asked, “Are you living with someone else? Or is Kit motherless?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “It’s got everything to do with me!”

  “You’re forgetting something. You gave up your rights to Kit when she was born.”

  Although her palms were sweating, the rest of Marnie felt ice-cold. Knowing she was fighting for her life, she said in a cracked voice, “I turned seventeen three months before Kit was born. Until this morning, I’d never even laid eyes on her.”

  “Unfortunately, some decisions we make in life are irrevocable. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

  “Are you really that hard, Cal?” she whispered. “Is there no room in you for human frailty?”

  He said flatly, “I’d guard Kit’s peace of mind with my very life.”

  Marnie pounced. “So is she happy? Tell me she’s totally happy with her life the way it is, and I’ll go away. I promise.”

  Abruptly, he swung away from her, gazing out to sea. The breeze toyed with his hair; his shoulders were rigid with tension.

  Swiftly, Marnie stood up, putting herself between him and the water. In unconscious pleading, she rested her hand on his bare arm and said, “I hate this, Cal…this feeling we’ve got to score off each other, that Kit is some kind of prize we’re fighting over, when surely what we both want is what’s best for her. Can’t we do this some other way?”