The Marriage Agreement

Still painfully aware of Kimmy behind her, she gave out a bland expression of sympathy. “I am so sorry to hear that.”

“Why?” he asked dryly. “I don’t think anyone else is.”

“Is he—”

He answered before she completed the question. “He’s still alive. As of now. But it doesn’t look good. They’ve got him over at Norman Regional.”

She wanted to cry out, What did he say about me? Did he tell you? Is that it? Is that why you’ve called?

She asked, very carefully, “Have you…talked to him yet?”

“I saw him a couple of hours ago.”

“And?”

“He’s very sick. Other than that, he hasn’t changed a bit. What time will you call?”

She bit the inside of her lip and accepted the fact that if Marsh did know about Kimmy, he wasn’t going to talk about it now.

Which was a good thing. She couldn’t afford to talk about it now, anyway.

She glanced at the stove clock—6:23. After dinner Kim would be busy with homework. “In an hour?”

“Good enough.”

She hung up, gave herself a few seconds to compose her features, then turned back to the table and slid into the chair across from her daughter.

Kimmy, always a good eater, had finished her casserole and her salad. She’d started in on a drop biscuit. The biscuit was giving her trouble, breaking apart as she tried to butter it.

“Here.” Tory held out her hand—which surprised her by not shaking one bit. Kim passed the biscuit across. Tory buttered it. Kim watched the process with great interest. “Jam?” Tory asked.

“Um. Yes, please.”

Tory spooned a dab of strawberry jam onto each crumbly biscuit half. “There you go.” She set the halves back on Kim’s plate.

Kim picked one up and brought it to her mouth. Before she bit into it, she asked, “Who was that you were talking to?”

Tory’s smile felt like something glued onto her face. “Just an old friend.”

Kim set the biscuit half down again. “You said that before. What old friend? Who?”

“No one you know.”

“You said that before, too.”

Tory faked a warning frown. “And that is all I am going to say, Miss Nosy Pants.”

Kimmy groaned. “Mama. Pants can’t be nosy.”

“Eat that biscuit. And finish your milk.”

“Then can I have a Ding-Dong?”

“The milk and the biscuit. Now.”

Tory spent the next hour trying not to let her daughter see her distress, and seesawing back and forth between acceptance of the fact that she would have to meet with Marsh and frustrated fury that such a thing should be necessary.

After all this time.

After she’d accomplished what she would once have called impossible—letting go of her lovesick dream that Marsh would someday return to her, would go down on one knee and beg her to marry him, would swear he couldn’t live another minute without her at his side.

It hadn’t been easy, but lately Tory had managed to achieve a pleasant, peaceful kind of balance in her life. Her parents, in their forties when she was born and now both nearing seventy, had retired to New Mexico. They had left their roomy ranch-style house to Tory and their beloved granddaughter. Tory owned her own business and enjoyed her work. Her daughter was beautiful, healthy, bright and well adjusted.

Things were going great.

And now this.

Marsh Bravo—back in town.

His return could shatter everything, could turn her peaceful life upside down—just as his leaving had done a decade before.

Still…

Marsh Bravo was her daughter’s father.

That fact remained, undeniable. He had a right to know his child.

And Kim did ask about him. More and more often of late. In the end Tory really didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, and she knew it. She would have to meet with him.

When Tory called Marsh back, she did it from the privacy of her bedroom, with the door closed. She’d already gotten hold of Betsy, the high school girl who lived three doors up the street. As a general rule, Tory used Betsy Tilden whenever Rayanne Pickett, next door, was unavailable.

Rayanne Pickett was like a member of Tory’s family. She was a dear friend to Tory’s mother and as good as an extra grandma to Kim. Tonight, though, Tory didn’t want to take the chance that Rayanne might question her about where she suddenly had to get off to, after nine on a weeknight. Rayanne, like Tory’s parents, would not be thrilled to learn that the boy who had gotten Tory in trouble had returned to town.

True, chances were that Rayanne would have to know eventually.

But “eventually” was not tonight.

So Tory had asked Betsy first. And Betsy had agreed to come over at nine-fifteen, after Kim went to bed.

Tory kept the second phone conversation with Marsh brief. “I’ll meet you in the lobby of your hotel,” she said after a terse exchange of greetings. “About nine-thirty?”

He didn’t try to keep her talking, only said, “That’s fine—and Tory?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For agreeing to see me.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything, just quietly set the phone in its cradle.