Disguised Blessing Read online

  He looked at her, smiled, and lifted her into his arms.

  “From now on, every time you think about this cabin, you’re going to think about this moment, this entire day.”

  “Just this one day? What about all the others that will follow? We have a lot of years ahead of us.”

  He laughed deeply. “I like the way your mind works.”

  Pulling her close to fit them through the doorway, he swung her around in a circle in the bedroom before placing her gently on the bed.

  “Fates, are you watching?” she whispered. “Are you jealous?”

  Tom looked up from unbuttoning his shirt. “What?”

  “I’m tired of being afraid. From now on I’m going to revel in my happiness. As a matter of fact, I’m going to shout it from a mountaintop tomorrow for the whole world to hear.”

  “What brought that on?”

  “I’m in love—can’t you tell?” And there was something else, something she would never admit to him, something she barely admitted to herself: She wasn’t bone-achingly lonely anymore.

  He tossed his shirt and jeans onto the chair by the window and joined her on the bed, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her on top of him. “I don’t know. Maybe you should show me. I’ve always been more physical than verbal.”

  She sat up and straddled him, slowly pulling the pins from her hair and then shaking it free. Fully aware of the effect her deliberate movements had on him, she delayed even longer to look at him through hooded eyes, her mouth slightly open, her tongue touching her lip.

  He put his hand on the back of her neck and pulled her down for a deep, plundering kiss, beginning the day he’d promised she would remember for the rest of her life.

  Fresh from a second bath to rid herself of the sticky champagne residue, Catherine snuggled into Tom’s side and ran her hand over his chest. He was two months shy of his fortieth birthday and had the body of a twenty-year-old. No, that wasn’t right. He had the body of a man who put effort into the way he looked. A lot of effort. Muscles rippled when he moved. His stomach stayed as flat when a beautiful woman looked away as it did when she looked at him. Physical fitness was important to Tom and through his gentle prodding, it had become important to her.

  But how he looked and the way others looked at him were inconsequential parts of her love. Even if he couldn’t understand why things were important to her, he believed they were when she told him so, and acted accordingly.

  This trip was a test of sorts. For all of them. Which was why it was so important that it went well. Until now, she and Tom had never spent an entire night together. Catherine wanted to give Lynda the mental shelter of believing whatever she wanted to believe about her and Tom’s relationship. By having Tom come with them without sharing Catherine’s bedroom, they’d taken a step. Not one so large Lynda would be stripped of her security; but it was time she understood what it would mean to have him with them at breakfast as well as dinner.

  The battle for them to sleep in separate bedrooms had been hard-won. Tom was convinced Lynda was not only ready for her mother to take that step, she didn’t care. In the end he’d given in, although reluctantly.

  Tom took her wandering hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

  “You sound so serious.”

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to. But it is serious, in a way. It’s about Lynda. I know I told you I wouldn’t interfere, and I’m not, it’s just that I want to offer another viewpoint.”

  “About?”

  “Making her be with us every second she’s here. I know what you want to accomplish this week, but I think you’re going after something you already have. She already thinks of us as a family, Catherine. To her it’s no big deal for the three of us to be together all the time. We love each other, she loves you and accepts me, and I think that’s a whole lot more than we had a right to expect at this point.”

  He rolled to his side to look at her, as if to gauge her reaction and form his argument from that. “I’m afraid if we make her miss this time with her friends she’s going to resent being with us, not go home thinking what a great time she had.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Didn’t you tell me she only gets to see this set of friends when she’s here?”

  “For the most part.”

  “And that she’s been looking forward to this for weeks?”

  “Yes,” Catherine admitted. Maybe she had made a mistake coming here. If she’d wanted Lynda to herself, they should have gone to another resort.

  “Now put yourself in her place. How would you feel about the people who—”

  “I get your point.”

  “Besides, this is our vacation, too. We have a right to some time alone, the same as Lynda.”

  He’d had her up to that moment. She tried to ignore the flicker of disappointment she felt. After all, his first consideration had been Lynda. Of course he would think about spending time alone with the woman he loved, maybe even feel a little selfish about it. Would she really want it any other way?

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right,” she said. “It’s just that you and Lynda have spent so little time together.”

  “All right. Let’s say she woke up one morning and decided she didn’t like me. What would you do?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “But what if it did?”

  She wasn’t sure what he was after. “I’d have to find another way to make her see what a wonderful man you are.”

  “And if that didn’t work?”

  Catherine propped herself up on her elbow. “You can’t be asking me who I would choose if it came down to you and Lynda.”

  “What if I were?”

  “What good does it do for us to discuss something that isn’t going to happen?”

  He rolled onto his back and sat up. “Maybe I just want to know where I stand with you. Sometimes I get the feeling it’s pretty far down the line.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Okay. Maybe not far down the line—but definitely second place.”

  How had they gone from lovemaking to the verge of an argument? Had she missed a step somewhere? “Did I say something wrong? Did I do something? I don’t understand what’s going on here.”

  Tom stared at her for several seconds before shaking his head in defeat. “It isn’t you, it’s me.” He tenderly tucked her hair over her shoulder. “I’ve never been this happy with anyone. I can’t seem to keep myself from looking for something that would tell me it isn’t real. Self-protection, I guess. I’m just afraid of being hurt.”

  They were words to melt her heart. “I’m here. And I’m real. And I’m not going to go away. If there’s a problem, we’ll find a way through it. I promise.”

  He kissed her, his mouth hungry and demanding, his body instantly ready for her again. She responded with an equal intensity, eager to have him understand the depth of her commitment in his body as well as his mind.

  They had dinner on the deck that night: Brie and sesame crackers; tart, sliced apples; plump, succulent grapes; and an exquisite cabernet sauvignon that Tom had been saving in his wine locker for a special occasion. They leaned back in their chairs to let the last of the day’s sun warm them, and talked about the pollen and the office building that Tom’s company had built in Roseville and the guest list for the wedding.

  She wanted a small wedding. He wanted her to invite everyone she knew, including most of the membership of the country club. His request had confused her until he reminded her that being new to the area put him at a disadvantage, and he considered the reception an opportunity to meet people as well as celebrate their marriage. She couldn’t fault his ambition—overcoming a background of neglect and poverty to become a vice president for LandCo was one of the things she admired most about him. Still, she would have liked to save their wedding for them.

  When they were sated with food, they took the last of the wine inside an
d made love with as much passion and enthusiasm as before. Then, just before Tom slipped into a contented sleep, he toasted Catherine and told her that she’d made him realize there were no problems the two of them together could not solve. She was the woman he’d been looking for his entire life, the woman he’d given up hope of ever finding.

  Catherine stayed in bed with Tom until she was sure she wouldn’t disturb him by leaving. Slipping into her father’s old flannel robe, a fixture at the cabin as old and worn as the carved wooden bear beside the front door, she tiptoed into the kitchen to fix a cup of hot cider.

  Cider was a treat she reserved for the cabin. Except for wine and an occasional glass of milk, she never drank anything that had calories. But even with watching her diet and regular workouts with Tom, she still couldn’t shed the eight pounds she’d put on in her thirties. One pound for every year. Her friends worried about their birthdays because they hated the idea of getting older. She worried how many more years and accompanying pounds it would take before she had to move up another dress size.

  Taking her cider outside, she lifted a cushion off a deck chair and took it with her to the dock. The night air wrapped her in a cool, fragrant embrace. She looked at the sky, a black quilt embroidered with stars in wondrous, mysterious patterns.

  Tom was right. Lynda only had a few more summers of freedom, and even fewer of childhood. It was wrong to take even part of one away from her. There would be lots of time for Lynda and Tom to get to know each other better. A lifetime. He would be a grandfather to her children, undoubtedly seeing them more often than Jack saw his own daughter. But then, Jack had never been much of a father, and there was no reason to believe he’d be much of a grandfather. Catherine had no doubt that Jack would abdicate this future role to Tom, too.

  Catherine sat and propped the cushion against a post, leaning back, savoring the smell and then the taste of the cider, taking small, luxurious sips as she stared at the stars. At moments like these she mentally resisted Tom’s gentle nudging for her to get back into the kind of projects that had consumed her life when she was married to Jack. She’d become a volunteer for any and all organizations he’d felt were important for their social standing. She did the work, he made appearances at the functions where he would be seen and could network.

  At the time, she’d been as caught up in building his career, in doing her part to see he met the right people, as he had been. Then, when he left and she went to work and didn’t have time to keep up with everything she’d committed herself to when they were married, she’d discovered most of the friends she’d made over the years were connected by a common thread she no longer held.

  She understood Tom’s desire for her to be the partner she’d been to Jack, saw the benefit it would bring, but couldn’t summon the enthusiasm she’d once held.

  Which, she knew, wasn’t fair to Tom. And, basically, she was a fair person. No doubt she would rejoin the organizations she’d once led that had gone on very successfully without her.

  She studied the lights across the lake, trying to pick out the Winslow house, finally deciding it was the one with the open, flickering fire out front. She hadn’t been to the house in years but remembered the large parties the Winslows had put on and the enormous barbecue pit where they’d cooked dinner for over fifty people at a time.

  The Winslow boys were the wild ones at the lake when Catherine was growing up. At least one out of the three of them was in some kind of trouble at all times. The youngest was four years older than Catherine, old enough for her to have had a crush on, too old for him to have paid her anything other than cursory attention.

  Brian’s father was the middle Winslow boy, the only one who’d actually ended up in jail for one of his pranks. Now he owned his own real estate development company, was happily married to his high school girlfriend, and lived in a two-million-dollar house in Carmichael.

  Catherine finished her cider and put the cup aside. A mosquito buzzed near her head. She swatted it away and leaned back against the post again. For several seconds she sat perfectly still and simply listened, to the sounds of water against the shore, the call of an owl, the faint, bass beat of music being played at one of the distant cabins.

  At that moment Catherine knew that if her mother moved to Arizona and left the cabin to her and Gene, no matter how much trouble it might be, she could never let it be sold away from the family. She felt at peace here.

  Not until she’d made her decision did she realize how much it had been bothering her. Now she felt free to think about and plan future summers for her and Tom and Lynda—the trips they would take to Lake Tahoe in July to watch the fireworks, the hikes into Desolation Valley. This place would provide another link to hold them together, another love they had in common. Tom might not be as enthusiastic about the cabin as she’d like, but she had no doubt it would grow on him. Especially when they updated things a little. The formica countertops in the kitchen had never bothered her, but she could understand Tom’s feelings about them. He liked to be surrounded by nice things. They were important to him. In reality, it was a very small thing to ask.

  Her meandering thoughts abruptly ended. Something in her ordered, familiar world wasn’t right. It was as if the stars had shifted or the crickets had stopped chirping or…the fire she’d been watching at the Winslows had grown larger and moved.

  She leaned forward, staring intently at what she convinced herself had to be an optical illusion.

  Until it moved again.

  3

  THE SHIFTING FLAME FLARED BRIGHTLY, CONSPICU-ously consuming its fuel in a burst of energy. It flickered and flashed, as if playing a bizarre game of hide-and-seek in the trees.

  Fire didn’t move. It was rooted to its base. The only way it could move was if its source moved.

  She held her breath until her lungs screamed for air. The moving flame had to be an optical illusion—or someone whose clothing had caught fire.

  Precious moments passed and still she didn’t move. She couldn’t. As long as she stayed where she was, as long as she didn’t go inside and call, she could escape in the search for yet another explanation.

  A mocking voice emerged from the recesses of her mind, echoing the foolishly brave thoughts she’d allowed herself that afternoon. She’d known she was taking a chance expressing such complete and utter happiness. What ego had tempted her to do something like that?

  Stop, she told herself. She stood and picked up the cushion. If fear didn’t turn her into a basket case, head games would.

  Lynda had said dozens of kids would be at the party. Why would she automatically assume Lynda was the one whose clothing had caught fire—if, indeed, anyone’s had caught fire?

  The pep talk almost worked. She was ready to accept that she’d imagined the whole thing when she heard the choking sounds of a boat motor starting. She hugged the cushion and waited and told herself the sound could be coming from any one of the fifty houses on the far side of the lake. Even now, she sought a safe explanation. When had she become such a coward?

  Running lights appeared—at the Winslows’ dock. The motor changed to a low roar; the lights moved. And finally, Catherine moved. She hurried along the dirt path to the cabin. A siren cut the air, drowning the boat motor, calling the volunteer firefighters to gather at their station behind the store.

  She moved faster, murmuring a prayer. Please, God. Let Lynda be safe. Her toe hit a rock and she stumbled, catching the hem of her father’s robe on her heel. The fabric made a tearing sound and she let out a small cry at the loss.

  She couldn’t think about it now. She had no time for small regrets. It was just a robe, a piece of flannel, cut from a bolt of cloth and stitched together on an assembly line, special only because it had once belonged to her father.

  What was she thinking? How could she be concerned about a robe when—Dear God, it couldn’t be Lynda who’d been burned. Not her beautiful little girl. Lynda was fine. She was always fine. When she and her father were rear-e
nded in his car, she’d come through without a scratch. She was lucky. She’d always been lucky. She’d played soccer and Softball and hiked and swam and rollerbladed. She’d even participated in a hundred-mile bicycle race and she’d never been hurt. Not once.

  And she was sensible. She didn’t take chances. She thought skateboards were dangerous and didn’t like snowboards.

  It wasn’t Lynda.

  It couldn’t be.

  Catherine slammed the kitchen door against the cupboard as she ran into the house. She grabbed a pair of jeans out of her bedroom closet and stumbled down the hall to Tom’s room as she put them on.

  “Tom—wake up. Something’s happened.” She hit the light switch and went to the dresser to get his clothes. “We have to get to the store.”

  Climbing from the depths of sleep, he was slow to respond. She expected more and lost patience. “Right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” He rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed. “What’s happened?”

  “I think one of the kids at the party got burned.” She couldn’t tell him she was afraid that it was Lynda. He wouldn’t understand and she didn’t have time to explain. “I’m not sure, but that’s the way it looked. I saw the fire—and then I heard the boat and the sirens.” She flung underwear and socks in his direction and went to the closet for pants and a shirt.

  “Catherine, calm down and think about this for a minute. Obviously you believe Lynda is involved, but if that were true, don’t you think someone would have called us by now? The Winslows must have your number.”

  They were words she needed to hear, the logic that controlled emotion. “Yes…no. I don’t know. Even if Lynda isn’t the one who was burned, she’s going to need us.” Her anger flared when she saw that he still wasn’t moving. “Goddamn it, Tom. Are you coming with me, or do I have to go by myself?”