True Colors

“Expansion without risk is like bread without butter. No flavor. Take care, Don. Let me speak to Mr. Smith again, please.”

“Okay. I’ll call him. Take care of yourself.”

“Sure.”

Minutes later, Mr. Smith was back on the line. “He’s gone,” he said curtly. “I don’t trust him, Kip. Neither should you. I think he’s up to something.”

“I’ll bet you’re the most suspicious man on earth. It must be that old CIA experience affecting your brain. Don’s all right.”

“He said Tiny should be kept outside,” he said after a minute.

She laughed. “Tiny would be miserable outside. It’s my house. As long as it is my house, Tiny lives inside. Okay?”

He relaxed. “Okay.” He made a rough sound. “Thanks.”

“I want you to come out here next week.” She gave him a list of the things she needed and set a time. “Call Blake, will you?” she added. “I hate being away from him so much. At least we can talk on the phone. I know it’s late, but I do want to say hello.”

“He’ll be glad to do that. He’s already missing you again.”

She sighed. “I do travel a lot, don’t I? Too much, sometimes.”

“Uh, about Tiny…”

“I’ll get a new plumber,” she promised. “Don’t worry.”

She could almost see him grin. “Okay.”

Seconds later her son picked up the phone. “Mama, when are you coming home?” he asked sleepily. “My rubber duck fell in the cubbymode and Mr. Smith throwed him away. He got me a new one. Did you buy me a present? I can count to twenty, and I can write my name….”

“That’s very nice. I’m proud of you, son. You’re coming to see me soon, and I’ll have a present for you.” She crossed her fingers. She would have, by then.

There was a brief pause. “Can’t you stay home then and play with me sometimes? Jerry’s mama takes him to the park to see the ducks. You never take me places, Mama.”

She had to grit her teeth not to make some sharp reply about the necessity for her work. “When I get home, we’ll talk about that,” she said.

“That’s what you always say, but you go away again,” he muttered angrily.

“Blake, this isn’t the time for an argument,” she said firmly. “Now, listen. Mr. Smith is going to bring you out here very soon. There’s a lot to see, even some real cowboys, and we’ll have time to spend together.”

“We will?” he asked with such delight that she felt guilty all over again.

“Yes,” she promised.

“All right, Mama. Can we bring Tiny? Uncle Don says we ought to eat her. I think Uncle Don’s mean.”

“Now, now. We aren’t going to eat Tiny. Mr. Smith can bring her with you when you come out here to see me. But not just yet, okay?”

“Okay.” He sighed sadly. “Can Tiny sit with me when we come?”

“Tiny’s carrier can sit with you,” she corrected, remembering vividly the last time Mr. Smith had taken Tiny in the limousine with them on a trip. A small-town garage attendant had refused to pump gas after Tiny had pressed her nose against the window to look at him. People shouldn’t carry monsters around in their cars, he’d added scornfully. Mr. Smith had gotten out of the car to answer that insult, but the attendant was already out of range. Ever since then, Tiny rode in a carrier because Meredith insisted.

“I love you, Mommy,” Blake said.

“I love you, too, darling. I’ll call you tomorrow. You mind Mr. Smith and be a good boy.”

“I will. Night-night.”

“Good night.”

She hung up, fingering the receiver tenderly. Blake was the most important thing in her world. Sometimes she regretted bitterly the time she had to spend away from him on business. He was growing up, and she was missing some of the most precious days of his life. Would he resent that when he was older? Was she being fair to him not to let Don assume more of the responsibility for the domestic operations or to designate another corporate officer to help her? Perhaps her own pride was adding to the problem, because she felt obligated to carry on the role Henry had originally carved out for her. But would Henry have given her so much responsibility if he’d realized how it would affect her relationship with Blake?

No, she thought. He’d have delegated to give her more time with her son. He would have been with her himself, too, playing with Blake, taking him places, encouraging his curiosity about the world around him. Henry had loved Blake so much.

She turned away from the phone. Sometimes life without Henry was very hard. She wondered what it would have been like if Cy Harden had ignored his mother’s accusations and believed in Meredith, if he’d married her. They’d have been together when Blake was born, and perhaps the delight of having a son would have bound Cy to her.

She laughed coldly. Oh, certainly. Blake would have warmed his cold heart, and he’d have fallen madly in love with Meredith and kicked his manipulative mother out on her ear.

All of it whirled around in her head, blinding her. The pressure of business, Blake’s indignation and resentment of her absences, Cy Harden’s renewed presence in her life. She tugged at her thick blond hair and remembered something she’d read about “primal scream therapy.” She wondered what the neighbors would say if she went out into the street and screamed at the top of her lungs. She’d be locked up, that’s what, and then who’d take care of Blake, acquire new contracts, and deal with Cy Harden and his vicious mother?

She went upstairs and took a tranquilizer. She didn’t take them often, but sometimes the pressure was so terrible that she couldn’t cope. Alcohol, thank God, had never appealed to her. Neither did pills. She only took them when she had no other option. This was one of those nights.

With a long sigh, she showered and dressed for bed. It did no good at all to agonize and theorize over problems. Henry had taught her that. The only way to deal with a situation was with action, not mental gymnastics.

She lay down and closed her eyes. The tranquilizer began to work and she left it all behind, drifting off into a twilight of semiawareness. Sometimes, they said, a good night’s sleep was all that stood between an anguished person and suicide. She wasn’t suicidal, but oblivion was sweet, just the same.

CHAPTER FOUR

AS DAWN STREAMED THROUGH the curtains in Great-Aunt Mary’s immaculate bedroom, Meredith lay drowsily between the clean white sheets of the four-poster bed. She was remembering back. Cy’s cold aloofness, Myrna’s hot accusations, Tony’s confession…She could still feel the sickness as she ran from the Harden house to her Great-Aunt Mary’s. She couldn’t even tell the worried old lady or her great-uncle the truth about what had happened. It was too shameful to share.

She’d packed her bags and gone straight to the bank to withdraw her pitiful savings from her restaurant job. With no clear idea of what she’d do when she got there, she’d bought a one-way bus ticket to Chicago and kissed her worried relatives good-bye before she boarded the Greyhound and said a silent farewell to Cy.

Even then, she’d hoped that he might come after her. Hope died hard, and she was carrying his child. She’d even hoped that Myrna might relent and tell him the truth, because Myrna knew about her pregnancy. The older woman had made that apparent just before Cy came into the room that long-ago morning. But no one came. No one rushed to the bus station to stop her.

The Chicago bus terminal had been unwelcoming, crowded and busy. Clutching her worn suitcase in her hand, Meredith had fought down the instinctive fear of being alone and without visible means of support. There was always the YWCA if everything else failed. She’d find some place. But she felt sick and afraid, and always there was the threat of Myrna pursuing her over that supposedly stolen money.

The first three nights she’d spent at the YMCA in tears, mourning Cy and the life that could have been. But then she’d been told about another place, a Christian home with only a few tenants. She’d decided to try her luck there, hoping for a little more privacy in which to spend her grief without the prying, compassionate eyes of the other downtrodden women at the Y.

She remembered leaving the YWCA, wandering aimlessly down the cracked sidewalk while the cold winter wind whipped her long hair around her thin, pale face. As a few snow flurries touched coldly against her cheeks and eyelids and lips, she wondered what to do next.

Fate took a hand when she stepped off the curb without looking and found herself flat on the pavement, beside a very expensive limousine.

A minute later, a quiet, intelligent face came into focus, a face with deep blue eyes and thin lips, high cheekbones and brownish blond hair.

“Are you all right?” asked a velvety voice. “You’re very pale.”

The voice had what sounded to Meredith like a definite New York accent. She’d heard it often enough in the café when tourists passed through. She smiled. “I’m fine,” she murmured. “I guess I fell.”

The man’s eyes lit up. “I guess you did. But we helped a little, didn’t we, Mr. Smith?”