The Mother Of His Child. Sandra Field
Why you’re here. What you want from me.”
“Oh,” she said gently, “what I want is something I’m not going to get. That’s very clear.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What is it?”
“Compassion, Cal. Simple compassion. That’s all.”
She had, she saw, taken him by surprise. She didn’t know Cal Huntingdon very well, but she was sure it wasn’t often that he was knocked off balance. Especially by a woman. He said flatly, “Compassion has to be earned.”
“Then I’ll tell you why I’m here. I wanted to see the house where my daughter lives. I’d hoped to ask a few questions of the locals, find out what you’re like. You and your wife. To see—” her voice shook in spite of herself “—if my child is happy.”
“And that’s all?”
She hated him for so openly doubting her. “Do you honestly believe I’d turn up on your doorstep without a word of warning?” she flared. “Oh, hello, I happen to be your daughter’s biological mother and I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in. For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know if she realizes she’s adopted! What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“I’d have to have the brains of Einstein to answer that.”
“Does she know? That she’s adopted?” Marnie whispered, twisting her hands painfully in her lap as she waited for him to sneer at her again, to deny her information that was crushingly important to her.
“Look at me, Marnie.” There was a note in his voice new to her. She raised her head and saw, momentarily, something that was perhaps compassion. He said quietly, “Yes, she knows she’s adopted. We were truthful with her about that from the start. We thought it best in the long run.”
Marnie blinked back another flood of tears. “Do you see what that means?” she blundered. “It means that—even if minimally—she knows I exist.”
“You and the man who fathered her.”
Two tears dripped on her clasped fingers. Refusing to acknowledge them, Marnie said steadily, “That’s right.”
He said evenly, “There’s one thing you haven’t asked me.”
“Is she happy?”
“I didn’t mean that. You haven’t asked me her name. The name we gave our daughter.”
More tears welled up on her lashes. She’d been afraid to ask. “So what did you call her, Cal?”
“Katrina. Katrina Elizabeth. She goes by Kit.”
Suddenly, it was all too much for Marnie. Desperate to be alone, she fumbled for the door handle. Blinded by tears, sobs strangling her breathing, she yanked on the catch. Cal caught her by the shoulder. Frantically, she twisted free of him. “Let go! I can’t take any more of this.”
And then the door was open and she was tumbling to the ground, her feet splashing in a puddle, the wind snarling her hair. She slammed the door shut and lunged for her own car, scrambling into her seat and instinctively jamming down the lock button on her side and the passenger side. It was a two-door car. She was safe. Only then did Marnie bow her head onto the steering wheel and begin to weep, sobbing as though there was no tomorrow.
Dimly, Marnie realized someone was banging on the window. Had been for some time. She looked up, blinking through her wet lashes. The rain had lessened, pattering softly on the windshield. Cal was rapping on the glass with his fist. He was very wet. He must have been standing there the whole time, watching her sob her heart out.
Invading her privacy.
She rolled her window partway down and said jaggedly, “I am not going to turn up on your doorstep, and once I’ve filled the car up with gas I’m going home. Goodbye, Mr. Huntingdon.”
“Oh, no,” he said softly, “it’s not quite that simple. Before you go anywhere, I want you to swear you won’t try to get in touch with Kit.”
“I wouldn’t be that irresponsible!”
“Swear, Marnie.”
If looks could kill, his would have blitzed her in her seat. Pushing her hair back from her face, Marnie scowled right back. She needed to blow her nose. Which, she knew from past experience, was undoubtedly bright pink after her crying jag. “I won’t do anything to harm my daughter. And you’ll have to be satisfied with that—because it’s all you’re getting from me.”
She turned the key in the ignition, and for once her car started on the first try. But as she reached for her seat belt, Cal inserted his hand through the gap, yanked on the lock button and pulled her door open. He barked, “You’re not calling the shots here—I am. As Kit’s father. You say you’re going to get gas. You think they won’t look at you down at the station and see Kit Huntingdon written all over you? You’re a walking time bomb, and I want you to promise you’ll head out of Burnham right now and you won’t come back. Do you hear?”
His voice had risen during this speech; Marnie might not care for large, angry men, but on the other hand she wasn’t about to show Cal Huntingdon she was shivering all the way to her very wet shoes. “All right, I’ll buy my gas out of town! Now will you please shut the door and let me get out of here before anyone sees me? The last thing you should be doing is holding me up. What if a friend of yours comes along?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “The next time I come to the supermarket for milk on a Sunday, I’ll think twice,” he snarled. “Remember what I said, Marnie Carstairs. Get out of Burnham and stay out. And don’t you dare try to get in touch with Kit.”
He slammed the door in her face. She pushed the clutch into first gear, flicked on the wipers and drove away without a backward glance, her fingers gripping the steering wheel as though it were Cal’s throat. At the exit to the parking lot, she turned right. Right led her out of town. Away from the local gas station and away from Moseley Street.
Away from Katrina Elizabeth Huntingdon, her daughter. Known as Kit. And away from Cal and Jennifer Huntingdon, the couple who nearly thirteen years ago had adopted her.
It would take a woman of extraordinarily strong character to live with Cal. What was Jennifer Huntingdon like? And was she a good mother?
Was she beautiful? It was unlikely Cal would be married to someone who wasn’t. Yet he’d called her, Marnie, beautiful…. Why had he done that?
A mile out of town, when she’d passed the vinyl-sided Baptist Church and the boutiques temptingly arrayed for the tourists, Marnie pulled into a take-out stand. It was one-thirty. She hadn’t had lunch, and her ice cream had ended up on Cal’s Cherokee instead of in her stomach. She’d buy a sandwich. And then she’d do some hard thinking.
She took her sandwich to a small picnic spot along the shore, choosing the end table so she’d have privacy. The rain had stopped; the undergrowth smelled damp and pungent. She sat down on the wet bench and started to eat. Cal shouldn’t have tried ordering her about. She’d never liked being told what to do. Charlotte Carstairs had been long on orders and short on love, and there was no question in Marnie’s mind but that her own child had been conceived—at least partly—out of rebellion.
The sandwich tasted good. Chickadees were chattering companionably among the trees, and waves lapped on the rocks. Gradually, Marnie calmed down, all her new knowledge settling more gently into her mind. Her daughter’s name was Kit. Kit looked so like Marnie that Cal had ordered Marnie out of town. Because he didn’t want anyone knowing about Kit’s real mother. He certainly didn’t want to run any risk of Kit and Marnie meeting.
Which hurt. Hurt quite dreadfully.
With a jolt, Marnie suddenly remembered the one question Cal hadn’t answered. An extremely important question. In fact, the most essential question of them all. Whether Kit was happy.
He’d sidestepped it by telling