The Mother Of His Child

She kicked at the shale with the toe of her sneaker. “I was sent to a private clinic. The town was told I’d gone to a fancy girls’ school, and my mother said my cousin Randall from Boston would marry me when the baby was born.” She talked faster, only wanting done with this. “It was a hard labor, so I was out of it when Kit was born. When I came to, my mother was sitting by the bed. The baby was gone. She’d lied about Randall and the marriage, and she made me sign the consent forms by threatening to fire Terry’s father. She’d see he never got another job in the province, that’s what she told me. And if I ever tried to trace my child, she’d set a bunch of roughnecks on Terry and his brothers.”

Marnie shivered. “I knew she’d do it. I couldn’t risk anything happening to Terry or his family—they were the ones who’d taught me all I ever knew about kindness. So I signed.” As an afterthought, she added, “My mother also told me I was disinherited. As if that mattered.”

“How did you know your baby was a girl?”

“You sound like a lawyer for the prosecution,” she snapped. “One of the cleaning women told me. No one else would say a word, it was as if nothing had ever happened, as if I’d dreamed the whole pregnancy and birth. It was awful. I waited until I felt well enough, then I packed my suitcase and left via the window.” She glowered at him. “Ground floor this time. I wrote to my mother two or three times, and after that I wrote every Christmas and for her birthday. But she didn’t answer a single one of my letters, and I never saw her again. I found the paper with your name on it in her safe when I went back for the reading of the will. End of story.”

“It all sounds so feudal,” Cal said.

“So you don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that, Marnie.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“You’ve got to admit it’s an incredible story,” he said, frowning.

Marnie’s mind made an intuitive leap. “You think I’ve invented all this—straight out of a gothic romance—to cover up my guilt for abandoning my baby.”

“Dammit, I don’t! I don’t know what I think.”

Aware of an immense weariness, Marnie said, “It doesn’t really matter, does it? The fact is, Kit was adopted, your wife died, and it’s in Kit’s best interests that I stay out of the picture.”

“The fact is,” Cal said harshly, “that I don’t want you out of the picture. My picture. Despite Kit. Despite common sense and logic and caution. Explain that to me, why don’t you? Is that another scene from a gothic romance? I hardly think so.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know what—”

“Don’t you, Marnie? Come on, tell the truth.”

Her heart was beating in thick, heavy strokes. “No, I don’t,” she said with a defiant toss of her head.

“Then let me show you.”

Cal’s footsteps crunched in the shale. His eyes blazing with an emotion she couldn’t possibly have categorized, he took her by the shoulders and bent his head. A wave collapsed on the beach in a rattle of stones. The tide’s coming up, we should get out of here, Marnie thought foolishly, and felt the first touch of his mouth to hers.

His fingers were digging into her flesh, his lips a hard pressure. Rigid in his embrace, she felt a shudder run through his body. Then gradually his kiss changed, questioning rather than demanding, and his hands left her shoulders, smoothing the rise of her throat and tangling themselves in her hair. Beneath her closed lids, the sun blazed orange.

As abruptly as he’d drawn her to him, Cal pushed her away. Marnie’s eyes flew open as he said in a staccato voice, “I shouldn’t have done that. Kissing you—Kit’s mother—it’s the stupidest move I could make.”

Marnie asked baldly, “Are you involved with anyone?”

“Are you kidding? In a town the size of Burnham with a twelve-year-old girl in the house? I haven’t slept with anyone since my wife died, and why the devil am I telling you something wild horses normally wouldn’t drag out of me?”

“I’ve had exactly one sexual experience in thirty years and that was with Terry.”

In sheer disbelief, Cal rasped, “Come off it, Marnie. You don’t have to lie to me.”

And quite suddenly, Marnie had had enough. The gamut of emotions she’d experienced ever since she’d bumped into a black-haired man in a parking lot in the middle of a thunderstorm now coalesced into pure rage. “I’m sick to death of your disbelieving every word I say!” she cried, wrenching free of him. “Let me tell you something, Cal Huntingdon. You think I’d jump in the sack with another man after what happened to me? For nine months I carried my child. That may not sound very long to you because you’ve had her for almost thirteen years. But to me that was a lifetime. Sure, I was terrified of being found out, and no, I had no idea what I was going to do or whom to turn to. It didn’t matter. I loved being pregnant. I felt fiercely protective of my baby and I knew I was going to be the best mother in the whole world.”

She realized through a haze of anger and pain that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Furious with herself for crying, she let her words tumble over each other. “And then she was taken from me. I never saw her. I had no way of tracing her or getting her back. I’ve never even known if she was loved.” Her voice broke. “How do you think that felt? I’ve lived with that loss for years, and if you think I was going to risk anything so terrible happening to me again just for the sake of a roll in the hay, you’re out of your tree. And I’m not crying!”