Shannon Waverly - Three For The Road

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.

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 headed out to the motor home.

Inside the vehicle, Mary Elizabeth threaded her way through the kitchen, down the short passageway with the bathroom on one side and storage cupboards on the other, to the bedroom at the rear. With a grunt of relief, she dropped the box she was carrying onto one of the two twin beds—already overburdened with her belongings.

The motor home was a marvel of storage compartments, but in her haste she hadn’t packed as efficiently as she could have. She’d do that later, when she had more time. Right now she felt compelled to hurry. Charles had gone to the bank this morning, giving no indication he’d be returning to see her off, but Mary Elizabeth didn’t trust him anymore. She especially didn’t trust him to keep from speaking to Roger.

Although Charles abhorred the idea of her staying in town, pregnant and unmarried, he didn’t like her going away so abruptly, either. People were bound to wonder what had happened here to cause such unseemly behavior, he said. He also worried about her accidentally running into people they knew during her pregnancy. And what if she decided to return with the baby some day? His lack of control over the situation bothered him, and she knew he’d started thinking of telling Roger again. To Charles, marriage was still the best solution to the problem.

Mrs. Pidgin was fitting a package of six single-serving quiches in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator when Mary Elizabeth emerged from the bedroom.

“Here, let me help.” She dipped into the bag, pulled out a deli container of lobster salad and tossed it into the refrigerator.

Mrs. Pidgin closed the freezer. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that’ll make you change your mind.” It was a question, a last-ditch hope. She was the only person other than Charles who knew why Mary Elizabeth was leaving. She was the only person, period, who knew where she was going. Mary Elizabeth had told Charles Chicago, in case he decided to come looking for her, but she didn’t want to drop off the map entirely. She wanted someone here to know where she was if a family emergency arose.

“Change my mind? Afraid not, Mrs. P.”

The housekeeper’s face looked pained. “Well, I can’t really say as I blame you. Your father’s behavior this past week has been unforgivable.”