Three For The Road. Shannon Waverly
blinking away tears. It seemed she’d been receiving lectures all her life on how Drummonds did or did not behave. Once again, she didn’t measure up.
“Tell me, what sort of social life do you expect to have, burdened with a child?”
She misunderstood his remark as rising from concern and was about to reassure him when he added, “Who do you think is going to be interested in you now?”
A piercing pain sliced right through her.
“It isn’t merely that you’re pregnant, although Lord knows that’s a formidable enough reason for any man to avoid getting involved with you. After all, who wants to take on another man’s child?”
Mary Elizabeth’s breathing had become so labored it felt as if someone had stuffed a rag down her throat.
“It’s also the fact that you’ve obviously had intimate relations, and by remaining unmarried, you’re all but announcing to the world that those relations were meaningless. From there, I’m afraid, it’s an easy leap for people to see you as indiscriminate and promiscuous. In plain English, Mary Elizabeth, they’ll see you as cheap.”
With each word he leveled at her, Mary Elizabeth felt smaller and dirtier. She sensed she ought to say something in her defense, but her will to act seemed to have deserted her. On a level she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, she knew her father made sense.
“I hope you realize I’m saying these things only because I’m concerned about your future happiness. I want to see you settled, with a family, in your own home. But if you continue to follow this path, I don’t see how that’s possible.” Charles smoothed a palm over the desk blotter, wiping away imaginary dust. “Now, you might argue there are lots of broad-minded men out there who’d be interested in you, but don’t kid yourself, Mary Elizabeth. Most decent men still want to marry a ‘nice’ girl, no matter how liberal they claim to be, and I hate to say this, but the label that’s usually attached to the sort of woman you aspire to being is—” he cleared his throat “—’used goods.’”
In a mature, detached part of her brain, Mary Elizabeth marveled at her father’s ability to manipulate her emotions. Equally astonishing was her inability to stand up to him. But it wasn’t really such a mystery; they’d had a lifetime of this sort of confrontation to perfect the pattern.
Unfortunately, knowing what was happening still didn’t prevent her from being reduced to a helpless bundle of shame and guilt. She could only lower her eyes and hope she didn’t break down before she reached her room.
Charles folded his hands on the desk blotter. “Have you considered terminating the situation?”
Mary Elizabeth blinked, rising out of her pain. “No.”
“And why not?”
She reared back in sheer incredulity. Her father had been a pro-lifer as long as she could remember. But apparently the “morally right thing to do” existed on a sliding scale, depending on how close to home an unpleasant situation struck.
“I just can’t.”
He shook his head. “Ah, Mary Elizabeth. You’ve always been a burden.”
She looked down at the Persian carpet, remembering other times, other lectures, when she’d stood just so. Yes, she’d been a burden to him, not as studious as his two other children, not as well-groomed, never as well-behaved. She’d tried. Lord, how she’d tried. But evidently there was simply something inherently wrong with her.
Charles pinned her with a look of renewed determination. “Tell Roger.”
She shook her head.
“If you don’t, I will.”
Panic engulfed her. “You can’t.”
“I most certainly can. If you insist on having this baby, then, by God, you’ll have it married. You’ll give no one reason to gossip.” Not for a second did he doubt his ability to persuade Roger to marry her. Neither did Mary Elizabeth. Apart from the fact that Roger idolized Charles, he enjoyed his job far too much to cross his employer.
For one brief moment, Mary Elizabeth regained her normal adult perspective and saw her father’s attitude as absurd and archaic. She was twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake. She was an educated, accomplished woman in a professional career. He had no business dictating her decisions, especially one that was so important. And that was why, when he offered her one last alternative—the choice to go away, have the child and give it up for adoption, a choice she was already leaning heavily toward herself—she said no.
“No?” Charles jerked his head, as if her impudence had struck him a physical blow.
“No.”
In a most uncharacteristic loss of control, he flung a priceless paperweight across the room. It hit a plaster bust of Winston Churchill, leaving the statesman without a chin. “Damn you, Mary Elizabeth! You’re just like your mother.”
Mary Elizabeth frowned. She didn’t understand his comment and would have let it go—if he just hadn’t turned so red.
“What do you mean, I’m just like my mother?”
He continued to stare at her, saying nothing, but a look came into his eyes, an angry determination she thought she’d seen over the years now and again, a look almost too fleeting for her to be sure it had been there before it moved on, always leaving her trembling and relieved when it did.
“Tell me.” She shot forward, gripping the edge of his desk, challenging him, finally.
This time the look in his eyes didn’t pass. It settled in and focused, like the cross hairs on a rifle.
“Why am I like my mother?” she persisted. “Tell me.”
And he did.
CHAPTER ONE
KEEP MOVING, DRUMMOND. Don’t think. Just pick up the carton and go!
Mary Elizabeth obeyed her own command, ignoring her fatigue and mounting anxiety, and carried the last of her bedroom things down the wide, elegantly turned stairs.
But at the open front door, a surge of sadness blindsided her and caused her to hesitate. Outside, at the top of the circular brick driveway, basking in the golden September sun, was what might appear to be an ordinary eighteen-foot motor home. To Mary Elizabeth, however, it was her future.
Behind her rose the dignified, twelve-room Georgian where she’d lived all her life—her past. Her very definite, no-coming-back past. Her throat tightened and her eyes threatened to well up again.
Fortunately, Mrs. Pidgin chose that moment to come lumbering down the hall from the kitchen. The poor woman was already upset enough and didn’t need to see Mary Elizabeth breaking down, too. She pulled in a fortifying breath and smiled before turning.
The short, sixty-year-old housekeeper was carrying two plastic grocery bags by their straining handles, their weight seeming to tip her blocky form side to side as she walked. Like a windup toy, Mary Elizabeth thought with painfully deep affection. She only hoped the woman didn’t end up like most of those toys, overbalanced and on her side.
“What’s all this?” she asked. They’d already packed the RV with more than enough food to get her through her trip from Maine to Florida.
“Just a little extra. You never know.”
Mary Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Mrs. Pidgin was fussing over her as if she were setting off on a months-long journey in a covered wagon instead of a three-day zip down the interstate.
“Thanks, Mrs. P. But I wish you’d stop worrying. I’m going to be fine.”
“Of course you will. Of course.”
They both looked at the foyer floor, unable to hold each other’s gaze, then hastily