44 Cranberry Point
Page 37

He'd been gone since early morning, and Katie was napping. Maryellen rarely had uninterrupted time these days and she relished these private moments. She was pregnant again, although she hadn't said anything to Jon. All in due time. She wanted the situation to be perfect when she told him.
The front door opened and Maryellen walked out of the bedroom and looked over the upstairs railing. Jon was home earlier than she'd expected. He'd slipped out of the house before dawn for a day trip to the Olympic rain forest.
"Jon." She didn't bother to disguise her delight at having him home. When he'd left, he'd kissed her goodbye and whispered that he didn't know when he'd return.
Now, seeing her upstairs, he smiled, set aside his camera equipment, and hurried up the stairs, his energy undiminished despite his long day.
Maryellen met him at the top of the staircase and he threw his arms around her waist. "Where's Katie?"
"Asleep."
He wore that special smile of his. The one that told her he'd had a good reason for rushing home. "When did you put her to bed?"
Maryellen gave a coy shrug. "About half an hour ago. What do you have in mind?"
Jon's throaty chuckle sent shivers of excitement down her spine. "First things first. A shower, followed by something to eat and then..." He hesitated, still smiling, and brought her close. "On second thought, I'm not that hungry."
"Oh, honestly," she chided, but she relished his strong sexual appetite.
"Want to take a shower with me?" he whispered.
"Not now. You go, and I'll put together a couple of sandwiches. I wouldn't want you to faint from hunger."
He nuzzled the side of her neck. He held and touched her often. After so many years of living alone and avoiding relationships, Maryellen hadn't been entirely comfortable with his need for frequent physical contact. But the longer they were together, the more accustomed she became to his caresses—and the more she craved them.
"How did your day go?" he asked as he headed into the bedroom, still holding her by the hand.
"Actually it was pretty quiet. Katie and I spent some time outside and then I paid a few bills." For obvious reasons she didn't mention she'd also written a letter. "Did you get the photographs you wanted?"
Jon pulled her into the room with him. "I got several that should work, but the whole time I was trudging through the forest I kept thinking how much more enjoyable it would be if you and Katie were there, too." He released her hand, then sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes.
"I've got leftover meat loaf," she said.
Jon looked up at her blankly.
"For your sandwiches."
"Sure, whatever."
Maryellen grinned.
"What's so funny?" he growled, jumping up and catching her around the waist again. He brought her down onto the bed with him and rolled over, trapping her beneath him. He ran his fingers through her hair and his eyes softened as he gazed down at her.
In that moment, she felt his love so strongly she wanted to weep. Pregnancy made her overemotional; she remembered that from before.
Sliding her arms around her husband's neck, Maryellen drew his mouth down to hers. Their kisses were slow and tender. After Katie's birth—when Maryellen realized how much she'd come to love Jon—he'd refused to make love to her. Those months had been agonizing, but now it seemed there was no satisfying him—or her.
"Come into the shower with me," he said between tantalizing kisses.
"It's the middle of the afternoon."
"So?"
"Jon..." Her protests were growing weaker by the moment.
"All right, all right...I'11 take my shower." He stood up and walked into the bathroom, shedding clothes as he did. The haze of desire didn't dissipate immediately. Maryellen got slowly off the bed and went downstairs. Times like this reminded her how fortunate she was to be loved by Jon Bowman.
She'd just finished making the meat loaf sandwiches when Jon skipped down the stairs, his shirt unbuttoned and his hair still wet from the shower. She froze when she saw that he was carrying the envelopes she'd left upstairs. Watching him carefully, she hoped he'd set them on the edge of the counter, where they usually put the mail, and leave it at that.
Her heart nearly stopped when the envelopes slipped from his hand and scattered across the floor. They both leaned down to retrieve them.
"I'll get these. Your lunch is ready," she said, hoping to distract him.
It didn't work. "Who's the letter to?" He straightened and held the unaddressed stamped envelope in his hand.
"A friend."
He stared at it for several seconds, frowning.
"Do you want your lunch or not?"
He ignored her question. "What friend?"
"No one important," she said, trying to squelch her panic.
"Maryellen, what friend?" he asked. "You look like a cat with feathers in your mouth. Is there something you're not telling me?"
"What's the big deal? Just someone who stopped by the gallery recently."
He studied her, eyes narrowed. "Do you mind if I take a look?" She knew he probably suspected another man; the truth was even worse.
She pressed her back against the counter, feeling her pulse hammer in her neck. She couldn't answer him.
"Maryellen?"
She turned away. "It's to your parents."
"What?" he exploded.
"Don't be angry," she pleaded, her eyes closed.
He was silent for so long she couldn't bear not knowing his thoughts. Tentatively she turned around, biting her lower lip, afraid her deception was about to destroy her happiness.
"What have you done?"
"Is this the first time?"
She shook her head.
He groaned with frustration. "I told you how I felt about my family."
"I know..."
He clenched his fists. "And you decided you knew better? You felt it was your duty to go against my wishes?"
"How did you know where to reach them?"
Maryellen took a calming breath. "I found their letters."
"Didn't I ask you to throw them out?"
"Yes—and I did." But until then, he'd kept the letters and that told her he still felt an attachment to his family.
"My father chose to offer me up as a sacrificial lamb. He betrayed me."
"He's so sorry, Jon. If only you'd talk to him, you'd see for yourself."
"Talk to him?" he shot back at her. "Talk to him! I spent seven years in hell because of my so-called father. I'll rot before I say one word to him again."
"You don't mean that! You can't have that much hatred in you."
"Obviously you don't know me as well as you think." He whirled around and dashed up the stairs.
Maryellen couldn't leave things as they were. She raced after him. "Please listen," she begged. "Your father isn't well. He's aged and he's frail and—"
Jon sat on the bed and jerked on his shoes. At her words, he grew still. "You've seen him?"
This was possibly a worse offense. She clasped her hands behind her and nodded. "They came into the gallery.... I didn't know who they were but your father wrote me afterward and asked me to act as a mediator between you."
"What did you tell him?" he demanded.
"I said no—all I did was mail them a letter to let them know about Katie and me and—"
"That's bad enough." He stood and brushed past her.
"Where are you going?"
Already halfway down the stairs, he glanced over his shoulder. "It seems I can't trust you, Maryellen."
"Can't we talk? Please don't do this."
Jon paused at the foot of the stairs. "There's nothing to talk about. I need time to think."
With that, he slammed out the door.
Brokenhearted, Maryellen slumped to the floor on her knees and hid her face in her hands. If Jon couldn't forgive his parents, it was unlikely he'd forgive her either.
Thirty-Nine
"Peggy," Bob shouted from the patio. "We're going to be late." He wasn't that keen on attending church this morning and would've gladly stayed home had Peggy agreed. However, he knew better than to ask.
His wife hurried out the back door and cast him an exasperated look. "I tried to talk Hannah into coming to worship service with us, but she isn't interested."
As far as Bob was concerned, Hannah was the lucky one. Peggy didn't want to hear it, though, so he attempted to console her. "Until recently, I wasn't interested in church, either, remember?"
Peggy nodded and climbed into the passenger seat. "I don't know what it is with the two of you."
"The two of us?" For the most part, Bob avoided Hannah, which wasn't that difficult. She worked odd hours at her dishwashing job at the PancakePalace. She was rarely home for dinner and frankly Bob preferred it that way. He'd tried to get along with their guest. Two or three times he'd made a genuine effort to talk to her, but Hannah was like a frightened rabbit; she ran for cover the moment Bob approached. He'd given up and settled for hoping that she'd leave soon.
Peggy frowned as she set her Bible in her lap. "Ever since Colonel Samuels phoned, both of you have been edgy and out of sorts."
"That's an exaggeration if I ever heard one," he snapped.
"No, it's not," Peggy insisted. "Hannah's as bad as you— worse, even. She isn't sleeping well. I know because I hear her roaming from room to room at all hours of the night. Of course, you're not much better."
Bob didn't argue; he'd been sleeping fitfully ever since the conversation with his former commanding officer. Bob couldn't explain the reason. It remained as much a mystery to him as his attitude toward Hannah. He'd tried to like the girl, but his negative reaction to her was visceral. Instinctive. Maybe it came from some innate revulsion to cringing, fearful personalities. He hated her clinginess with Peggy and he couldn't seem to change her aversion to him. Well, there was nothing he could do about it.
"Church would be a big help to Hannah." Clearly Peggy hadn't finished worrying about their guest's refusal to attend Sunday morning services.
Bob made a noncommittal grunt. The truth was, he'd had to drag himself out of bed that morning. Just as Peggy asserted, he hadn't been sleeping well. Little wonder. He was afraid that the moment he closed his eyes, the nightmare would return. It often struck without warning. Life would be perfectly agreeable if he could turn in for the night and have simple, pleasant dreams. Unpredictably he'd be thrust back into a Vietnamese jungle, gripped by terror. He hated every aspect of the dream. For years, he'd tried to drown out the noises of that day. The voices. Screaming. Shouting. Crying. Alcohol had only made it worse. If anything, the voices had gotten louder.
Sobriety wasn't helping all that much, either. The voices continued in a low drone that he ignored as much as possible. He'd been fairly successful until Maxwell Russell died in his home. Then the nightmare came back full force.
"Thank you so much," Bob muttered under his breath, angry with his old army buddy.
"Did you say something?" Peggy asked.
Bob shook his head.
Peggy glared at him. "You're certainly in a fine mood this morning."