It Started with a House... (9 page)

“Want to settle on the couch and I'll bring you a tray?”

“No, this is fine.” She pulled out a chair at the breakfast-nook table.

With some help about where silverware and dishes were located, Marshall cut and warmed a slice of bread and spread a dollop of the chive butter he'd whipped up on it.

“I like your house,” he said, placing the saucer before her. He added a napkin on the side from the holder on the counter.

“It must seem small compared to yours,” she said. “And it's aging.”

Marshall shrugged. “How much room do you need? You don't seem to spend much time here anyway. What's more, all houses are an ongoing expense. Repairs and improvements are the other side of investment. From what little I've seen, this one seems in pretty good condition.”

“I do try to deal with things before they grow into
issues.” She reached for half a slice, tore off a corner and slipped it into her mouth. She chewed as though she had been denied the flavor for years. “Emily Post once said that ‘bread is like dresses, hats and shoes…in other words, essential.'”

“Wolfgang Puck said to go home and pound some dough in your kitchen and find out what tasty therapy it can be,” he countered.

“Why did I try to impress you with my one food quote?”

“It was a good one,” he said. “There's a Yiddish proverb that claims ‘love is like butter—it's good with bread.'”

The slice fell out of her hands and fell facedown on the plate. “Oh, clumsy me. I should be wearing a baby bib.”

“Speaking of different cultures,” Marshall said, unable to resist teasing her a bit, since it seemed to be getting her mind off feeling ill, he continued, “I like the bonsai in the entryway and the Asian styling for that matter. I heard you need to be extra good with plants to keep those things alive.”

“Well, they're not like cacti. You can't ignore them and expect them to thrive. I had several die on me before I caught on somewhat. The one there now is only five years old. It barely qualifies as bonsai. Finding the right fountain was key. Otherwise I couldn't hope to mist the plant enough times in one day to give it adequate humidity.”

“And the decorating style?”

Her smile was weak, but wry. “That's easy. You've seen my mother's house with all the gilding and French
filigree. Don't misunderstand, it's beautiful in its own way, but it would look ridiculous in rooms as small as mine—or a house that's more contemporary like yours. And, too, there are so many houses decorated just like that around here. Mother likes her friends to emulate her.”

“I could have guessed that.”

Waving the dainty piece of the bread she'd just torn off, she said, “I wanted something less, ‘Look at me, I'm wealthy,' if you know what I mean. Growing up fascinated with books like Clavell's
Shogun
and
Tai-Pan
made me look into Eastern design. Oh, and the newer one—
Memoirs of a Geisha
. I think the style brings a serenity into a room that's helped me cope through tougher times.”

“And the bread? Is it helping?”

She moaned softly. “This is a lifesaver.”

Marshall leaned against the counter content to watch her sit cross-legged on the chair. There was no missing that she relished tearing the bread bit by bit with her fingers and then licking the lingering flavor of the chive butter off her fingertips. He doubted that her mother would approve, but he did. Eating was a sensual experience to him and he felt an automatic kinship with people who lingered over each bite. It pleased him to no end to discover Genevieve was one of those.

“How are you about camping?” he asked. “Were you a Girl Scout?”

“Mother would have had a stroke if I'd asked to do that. But I did take riding lessons for almost two years. That had her daydreaming about having an Olympian equestrian in the family, but when my trainer kept me on
trail rides instead of in the jumping and dressage rings, mother put an end to both of our fantasies.”

“Why?”

“By then I was almost seventeen and he was twenty.”

“Did she have cause to worry?”

“Maybe.” Genevieve offered a one-shouldered shrug. “I wasn't paying as much attention as I probably should have. I was just thrilled with any and all of the time I could spend with my horse.”

Marshall threw back his head and laughed with sheer pleasure. “I do believe you were that oblivious.” He had the strongest urge to take her into his arms until she held him with her thighs as though on her mount. For both of their sakes, he went to stir the soup. “Did you get through high school that unaware of what a temptation you were? Did you even go to the prom?”

“No, I was still dealing with the trauma of losing my father, mother's dating and the quickie marriage and divorce that followed. I didn't talk much at all. It took a sorority invitation in college to make me realize that unless I wanted to relocate and start from scratch, I needed to embrace my mother's increasing fame and the political-business networking structure that has become our not-so-subtle caste system.”

“You've adapted well enough without selling out your principles.”

She cast him an enigmatic look. “I'm more of an actor than I let Mother or anyone see. The rest is hard-won etiquette.”

So she hadn't healed anywhere near as much as she let on to others, Marshall thought, taking a sip of his wine.
She retained emotional fractures, wounds that made her sadder than most people would probably guess. He could change that if she let him.

As she swallowed the last bite of bread, he asked, “Ready for another slice? The soup won't be ready for at least fifteen minutes.”

“I'll try to wait. I feel stabilized,” she added, rubbing her tummy. “I don't want to push my luck.” A small silence ensued before she ventured, “Did you spoil Cynthia this way?”

He supposed he should have expected the question, but he'd been too preoccupied on how to broach questions about Adam to prepare himself. “Do you see this as some kind of knee-jerk reaction?” he asked.

“Maybe I am sick—or else you give me too much credit,” she began. “Remember, I work with a divorcée, another widow—and Ina isn't all that sorry about that—and a woman who might as well be either. I wouldn't recognize knee-jerk if I saw it. I was just wondering about your marriage.”

“What a coincidence. I wonder about yours.” He waited for some facial expression or stiffening to indicate he'd approached no-man's-land, but when that didn't happen he grew more serious. “I tried in the beginning. But Cyn didn't care about food. And she liked how thin she stayed as a smoker.” Feeling a bitterness rise in him at the waste of it all, he said, “Maybe we'd better table that subject for another day. Tonight, I think you should try to simply get over whatever it is that's trying to knock you off your feet.”

“It is disconcerting,” she said, looking as if her head was becoming too heavy for her neck. “I'm usually like
you, I don't get sick. Maybe a half-baked case of the sniffles every other year or so, that's it. I barely suffer from spring or autumn allergies.”

“It would seem you're pushing your luck. And I'm feeling increasingly guilty for the role I played in that.”

As he talked, she seemed to finally realize there was only one place setting. “Aren't you going to eat, too?”

“I wasn't sure you'd want me to.”

“That would be more than rude, that would be unkind. After you've gone to all this trouble for me?”

“It took less time for me to get this simmering than it does for you to explain points to prospective buyers and sellers.” But Marshall was thrilled that she expected him to stay. “Are you sure I can't pour you a small glass of wine?”

She scrunched up her nose. “My insides rebel at the mere mention of that. But help yourself. Is it even drinkable? I thought it was okay, but I've never tried South African wine before.”

“Bravo for experimenting. This chardonnay is almost past its prime, but with some fruit and cheese, most people would never know it.”

By the time he served the soup, it was dusk. Marshall suggested they avoid the harsh fixture light and lit the single candle Genevieve kept in a brass enameled holder on the counter using the disposable lighter she directed him to. He placed it in the center of the table.

“It's not exactly the dinner I had planned, but it's easier on your eyes and my laugh lines,” he teased.

“So much so that if it gets any more relaxing, you're going to have to fish my head out of my bowl.” But after
a careful taste she made a sound of pleasure. “And to think I passed on canned soup for this.”

“Maybe Santa will be generous at Christmas.”

They ate in companionable silence for a bit. It felt good. Right. Then out of the clear blue, she floored him with a question.

“I guess you're going to be polite and not mention all of the pictures? You did look around beyond the living room, didn't you?”

He tried to be honest without saying everything he felt. “I looked.”

Genevieve kept her gaze in the almost empty bowl. “Avery calls this the Tomb of the Known Soldier.”

“For all of her sharp edges, anyone can see that she genuinely cares and worries about you.”

“I guess what I'm trying to say is if I'd known I was going to get sick and that you would be coming—”

Marshall reached across to cover her hand with his and stop her from saying something that wasn't totally in her heart. “The photos weren't a surprise. Intimidating, yes. Most people look good in uniform, but he was—what's the word?
Buff.
On the other hand, if you'd hidden them and Avery or your mother or anyone asked my reaction later, I'd have been more troubled that you felt the need to hide them from me.” Then he would forever be wondering when they were apart if she was looking at them instead of thinking about him.

“I'm so confused, Marshall.”

“I know, sweetheart.” And there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it to help her. The memory of Adam was one thing she had to resolve herself. “Let it
go tonight. You're really not well. It means a great deal that you wanted to share what you did.”

She seemed to quit fighting her fatigue after that. Concerned that she would drop the spoon and splatter herself and everything around her, Marshall took it from her.

“What?” she asked, rousing.

“You're heading for bed.”

Lifting her into his arms, he carried her to the bedroom. He liked that she accepted that and rested her head against his shoulder, liked how right she felt in his arms. But he already knew that.

Sitting her on the edge, he turned down the blue and gold patterned comforter and ivory sheets, and then slipped her between them.

“Socks on or off?”

“Mm.”

“Poor exhausted darling.” He covered her and kissed her forehead, then her lips more gently. “Try to pay attention. I'm going to put away everything in the kitchen except a small container of soup for you to warm up if you wake in the middle of the night. If you don't, toss it down the drain in the morning, understood? Don't risk food poisoning on top of everything else.”

With a content sigh, she rolled into a relaxed fetal position. “Okay.”

“Do you mind if I keep the key one more day? If you need anything, I want you to call me and be able to get in.”

“Okay.”

“Will you miss me?”

“Okay.”

Tucking the blankets around her, Marshall kissed her once more, then left before she destroyed what was left of his ego.

 

When Genevieve woke it was dark except for a faint glow coming from elsewhere in the house. She didn't remember getting into bed and she missed the night-light being on in her bathroom. As she lay there and thought harder, it came to her.

Marshall had been here. He'd made soup.

Reassured, she rolled over ready to go back to sleep, but her mind started cranking images and thoughts as it often did when she went to bed too early and had succeeded in getting just enough rest to make more sleep impossible.

A glance at her clock told her it wasn't yet one o'clock in the morning. More bad news. That was way too early to be up and about. By midmorning, she would be dragging and yearning for a nap. Worse yet, she was hungry again.

What kind of bug made you sick as a dog half the time and starving the rest?

She threw back the covers and went to the kitchen, where she turned on the breakfast-nook chandelier, nuked the soup Marshall had left out for her and carried it to the table. Sitting down, she decided this was as good a time as any to browse through her mail, something she hadn't had time to do in two days.

Most of it was advertisement, but a magazine she'd picked up the other day and added to the heap had one of her favorite actresses on the cover. She paged through the glossies of airbrushed models and ads for everything
from deodorant to pregnancy kits until she found the page with the feature on the actress she admired. One paragraph into the story, Genevieve froze, then flipped pages back to the pregnancy-kit advertisement.

“No!” she whispered. “Oh,
no
.”

D
uring the last full week of September, only three days after she'd sat at her kitchen table and felt her axis tilt as though the earth had experienced the mother of all earthquakes, Genevieve drove to a Wal-Mart in another county and bought tissues, pantyhose, shampoo, bananas, two pumpkins for the front entryway of her house, and a pregnancy kit. As she placed it into her basket, she assured herself that she was wasting time and money and that she would probably start her menstrual cycle on the way home. When had she ever been regular anyway? Okay, since Adam, she amended. She eased that old pang of pain by thinking that this would make a good laugh at some distant point in time.

Fat chance.

Her own inner logic didn't miss an opportunity to make her feel the fool. She'd been sick as a dog for days—so much so that not only were Marshall, her
mother and the girls in the office begging her to go see her doctor, but she was almost ready to surrender to a physical herself, despite having had one in the spring. So why go through the extra expense of a pregnancy kit?

Because she'd had enough surprises and shocks to last two lifetimes. She wanted to go into an exam already knowing that she was about to finish losing her mind, her privacy, her reputation—basically, her life as she knew it.

Having told Ina that she would be tied up until early afternoon, she drove home and carried her purchases inside. Her BlackBerry had chirped, beeped and vibrated repeatedly throughout the morning. She ignored everything including client calls. Most of them were requests to schedule or reschedule viewings that she would deal with shortly.

Leaving everything but the kit on the breakfast table, she hurried to the bathroom and ripped it open and tried to focus on the directions. Of course, nothing made sense. By the time she reread it for the third time, she thought she would explode if she didn't relieve her bladder.

Afterward she made herself leave the room and get busy putting away the rest of her purchases and placing the pumpkins out front. Her nerves couldn't handle standing by and watching the clock. Nevertheless, the “what if?” question kept popping into her mind like the most elementary and irritating video game.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, she returned to the bathroom and looked at the results. Weak-kneed, she slumped down on the rim of the bathtub.

Genevieve didn't know how long she stayed like that, but it eventually registered through her shock that the
light coming through the bathroom window was a fraction of what it had been. There had been more beeps and rings signaling that people were trying to call her. But she hadn't yet been ready to deal with them.

As she struggled to find the strength, she heard a totally different sound—that of the back door opening. She knew she had locked it.

Only Marshall had her key.

“Genevieve?”

He called to her once more and proceeded to come looking for her, ultimately stopping in the doorway of the master bathroom. It was nothing compared to his majestic his-hers suite, but she doubted he was thinking about that considering the way he murmured, “Thank God.”

She remained hunkered over, elbows on knees, head in her hands, her hair gaining her some privacy, but not enough…and the mantra,
“Why?”
running over and over in her head.

“Genevieve, do you realize how worried everyone is about you?”

His voice wasn't angry or accusatory, it was entreating. But when she didn't so much as budge, he stepped into the room.

“Okay, this is getting scary. We've let you have your way, now we have to get you to the hosp—”

He must have spotted the box and paraphernalia on the vanity counter, especially the telltale gizmo that was their generation's equivalent to the dead rabbit in her grandmother's time. When the silence became one ounce of pressure too much, she looked up to see he had a wondrous look on his face.

She burst into tears.

 

For hours Marshall had been worrying about her—ever since he'd called the office this morning and been told she would be out until later. She'd been avoiding his calls all weekend and hadn't sung in the choir on Sunday. That much he'd gleaned from Bart, who was concerned himself. The few times he did get hold of her on the phone, she'd claimed she couldn't talk to him other than to blurt out in haste, “I'm sorry. I'll get back to you.” The problem was, she never did.

This afternoon when he'd called the office and Ina said, “Mr. Roark, I was about to ring you to ask if you'd seen her,” he'd been filled with concern, which had mushroomed into all-out dread. Fearing illness or a kidnapping, and scenarios that had grown progressively worse as the day drew on, he knew what he had to do. He let it be known to Ina that he had the key to Genevieve's house—fully knowing how upset Ina's boss would be when she found out. The thing was, he had to find her alive for her to have the luxury of taking her anger on the chin.

Now he stood before the explanation of what all of the evasive tactics and raw nerves were about.

He went to her and dropped to his knees so he could draw her into his arms. “Genevieve…sweetheart, don't. It's all right.”

“No, no, no.”

“Of course it is. Did you think I wasn't going to be happy? My Lord, it's
wonderful
.”

That declaration turned her tears into heart-wrenching sobs as she fought to curl tighter and tighter into herself.

Her reaction distressed him and he tried to soothe her, stroke her hair and kiss wherever he could. “I should have guessed this was the problem, but I couldn't get past the fear that you were seriously ill.”

“I might as well be.”

“Don't say that!” Did she forget who she was talking to? What was more, she had already given him his joy of life again, real hope for the future instead of feeling as if he was going in circles or, worse yet, drowning. Her news made him want to throw his head back to thank heaven and crow to the universe.

But it was clear that she was as heartsick at the idea of a child as her body was physically rebelling against the pregnancy. He understood that the latter was due to hormones, and the former with the loss of her husband, but it wasn't in his proactive personality to wait for things to evolve on their own.

“All you need to know,” he began in all earnestness, “is that no matter what, I am here for you.”

Genevieve rubbed her fingertips against the smooth skin between her eyebrows. “I know you mean well,” she replied, enunciating carefully. “But you're not helping.”

“I thought you'd be relieved.”

She made a sound as though something inside her was ripping in two. “How can I be? This is a travesty.”

“What did we do wrong but find comfort in each other's arms and relief from our long emptiness?”

“I was supposed to already
have
my baby! I begged him to leave me pregnant, and I prayed that I was. I prayed so hard.”

Marshall knew she wasn't intentionally trying to hurt
him, but her words wounded nonetheless. She was disappointed that the tiny flutter of life in her womb wasn't Adam's, instead of his.

“It's not fair,” Genevieve continued as though alone. “One time. One insane time!”

It crossed Marshall's mind that plenty of men would see this as the smart time to cut out and lie low. But not him. While her painful outbursts were almost unbearable to listen to, and her frankness pretty well decimated him, one fact remained.
They
had made that baby. And he wasn't a quitter.

He settled beside her on the throw rug, his back against the tub, his arms resting across his raised knees. “What we did may have been premature,” he began. “But I refuse to regret it.”

“Good for you.” Rising as though she couldn't bear his close proximity, she tossed her crumpled tissues into the trash and grabbed a new handful from the box on the counter. “In the meantime I'll be on the receiving end of stares and gossip. I'm the widow who acted like a slut with a man who just buried his wife. There's no telling how many listings this will cost me. I'll be lucky if I don't get kicked out of choir!”

“No one needs to know.”

She shot him a give-me-a-break look. “How does that work? Baby bumps can't be hidden for long, especially with my wardrobe.”

True, her slim sheaths, tailored suits and pencil skirts would define the obvious, but that was not what he meant. “Genevieve, what I'm saying is, by then we'll be married.”

“Just like that?”

Having concluded that she didn't want any part of romance right now, he figured that exhibiting strong pragmatic thinking would gain a better reaction. “It takes care of two important issues—the baby's security and gossip.”

“We barely know each other. We're certainly not in love.”

Marshall wondered how she would react if he admitted to being on his way there and had been for some time. What was more, he knew she was at least physically attracted to him. Quite a bit, he amended—and that wasn't merely his trampled ego talking. If he knew anything about Genevieve Gale, it was that she would never be the loose woman she dreaded being labeled as. She had to have some feelings to be intimate. That was a start as far as he was concerned. An appealing one.

“What's more,” she continued when he merely stood watching her unravel, “I have a house, you have a house—”

“We'll sell yours.”

“I happen to love my house. Sell your house.”

“But there's more room in mine—space for a nursery and an office for you.” No sooner did he speak than he saw her square her shoulders and lift her chin.

“More isn't necessarily more.”

Bad move, Roark,
he warned himself and immediately backpedaled. “There's truth in that. What would be your solution?”

“I don't know,” she wailed. “I'm not ready to
have
this conversation.”

At least she wasn't crying her eyes out as she had been.
“Then let me get one more thing said,” he began. “I've always wanted children.”

Genevieve hid behind her tissues for several seconds before curiosity won out. “Why didn't you?”

Given that she wasn't at her most receptive, he took his time formulating his reply. “I'd already broken my own promise not to marry Cyn until she quit smoking. I wasn't going to have a child's health or its future with its mother compromised by that.”

Genevieve's expression was on the verge of being censorious. “She must have been devastated by that decision.”

“You'd be wrong. In the end she was relieved and said as much. It was one of the things that helped me get through that time.” Accepting that he had to return to that painful time in order to move forward, he said, “Cynthia lost her twin brother when they were teenagers. He took his own life. Eventually she and I had to accept that she would never get over that, or be able to have a mature and complete marriage with me.”

“I'm sorry.” Suddenly Genevieve didn't seem to know where to look. “I had no idea.”

“You weren't supposed to. No one was.” He wanted to get up and take her into his arms. He hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable, just to correct preconceptions and clear up misconceptions. “Bryan had issues with their father, but I don't think anyone ever understood the full extent of his problems. Afterward, Cynthia spent the rest of her life feeling like half a person, forever anxious and trying to fill the gaping hole Bryan left in the family, which was impossible, since her father believed if anyone had been expendable in the family it was her.”

Genevieve gasped. “How horrible. And the cigarettes eased her anxiety.”

Marshall shrugged. “Cigarettes, alcohol, drugs du jour or prescriptions. As she beat the others, smoking became a stronger crutch. In the end it was the one thing she couldn't shake.”

“Yet, she still wanted to be buried back with her family?” Genevieve asked.

“With Bryan. It took considerable persuasion, but her ashes are with him now.”

Genevieve turned away and took up the washcloth folded neatly on the vanity counter. Wetting it, she covered her face. She stayed like that for several seconds before rinsing the cloth and replacing the soothing compress on her feverish and tearstained face. “I appreciate what it cost you to go over that again, and to live with such disappointment,” she said at last.

“I hated sharing such grim details when you're already upset.” Marshall gave her what privacy he could by gazing down at his tightly clasped hands. “But you deserved to know.”

Laying the cloth on the sink's edge, she faced him. “I needed to know, but strangely it doesn't change anything.”

That had his breath stalling in his lungs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Cynthia wasn't the only casualty in your marriage. You paid a price and I'm not sure you realize the size of it. You're not ready to jump into another relationship. I've heard psychologists say that you should wait one year for every five years you were married before entering another legal union.”

Did she think he wanted to wait until their child was practically in preschool? “That's the thing about theories—life tends to circumnavigate them…when it's not turning them into fertilizer.” Seeing that she didn't care for his reply, he added quickly, “It's not that I don't recognize we'll have challenges—”

“Marshall,” Genevieve interjected wearily, “I'm dealing with a shock that is going to change my life. Again. I need to think, and I can't do it with you here.”

She left the room, leaving Marshall with no choice but to follow. It didn't sit well to be summarily dismissed, but he knew neither of them was reacting appropriately at the moment. They were both suffering from information overload.

“Will you at least call the office and let them know you're all right? When I told her that I'd be checking things out over here, Ina asked me to let her know what I learned.”