The Unforgiven Page 9

  “Were you at home when it happened?” Jess asked, sitting back on his heels.

  “I was sitting on the roof of the shed, holding the nails for him.”

  Jess whistled. “That’s terrible. It must have been tough for you. Particularly for a little girl. They say that daddy’s her first love.”

  The first, yes, Maggie thought.

  Jess put on one more log and stood up. “How’s that?” he asked, joining her on the couch. He sank down beside her, and the weight of his body caused her to roll slightly into him. “Maybe we should talk about more cheerful things,” he said, slipping his arm around her and studying her face. Tenderly he lifted a lock of hair from her forehead and smoothed it back. Maggie rested stiffly in the crook of his arm.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Maggie shrugged but did not reply. She was seeing her father, clutching his arm, his face ashen, the ladder falling. Falling away from her.

  Maggie started as Jess ran one rough hand down the side of her face. “You seem so tense. I’m afraid I upset you.”

  Her cheek felt as if it were pulsing where he had touched it. “Well, I’m just not… I may be a little edgy tonight,” she said, squirming slightly.

  “What can I do to cheer you up?” he asked. “You want to hear an elephant joke?”

  “No.” Maggie’s laugh was more like a cough. His fingers on her arm felt electrically charged. She heard her own breathing becoming shallow.

  Jess looked down and sat silently for a moment. She was acutely aware of his body next to hers. She felt as if her whole body were throbbing. “Maggie,” he said softly. “Listen. It’s hard for me to talk about my feelings.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said quickly.

  “I want to,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve been alone a lot since my… since Sharon. You get kind of rusty.” He took a deep breath and went on. “There’s something about you. I noticed it right away. You let people know that you can take care of yourself. But you seem very uncertain too. Shy, kind of. Right away I felt something for you. I was touched by you. I’m not saying this very well. I felt,” he said carefully, “that there was something between us. Do you know what I mean?”

  Tell him no, Maggie thought. Stop this right now, before it starts. But at the same time her heart and her senses were clamoring for him. She sat in silence, avoiding his eyes.

  “Was I wrong?” The gentle anguish in his voice caught her off guard. Impulsively, she reached up and touched his face. Jess turned his lips to her hand and kissed her fingers. Maggie caught her breath at the caress, which brought back feelings long kept in check.

  Tentatively, Jess pulled her toward him and pressed his mouth to hers. Every muscle in her body responded to his kiss, softening into silken cords which strained to wrap themselves around him. She breathed in the scent of his hair, the faint, sweet smell of pipe tobacco, and the rich smell of his body as his arms encircled her in an urgent clasp. She found herself being sucked into the vortex of conflicting currents. She struggled, then pushed him away.

  “No, Jess,” she said, “I can’t.” Ignoring the pain in his eyes, she freed herself from his embrace and drew herself up. Without a word she stood up and walked toward the door to the kitchen, leaving him seated there on the sofa, staring ahead of him.

  In the kitchen she leaned against the sink, her arms wound tightly around her, and gazed out the window at the inky sky. Her heart was still pounding as if she had just made a narrow escape.

  She blinked away the tears which were forming in her eyes. The last time she had been with a man, the night of Roger’s murder, it had been snowing—the beginning of a blizzard, in fact. They had watched it start, lying amid the scratchy, rumpled sheets of the motel bed. The sky was that deep blue it is just before night falls.

  “We have to go,” Roger said wearily. “That snow is really starting to come down out there. Look at it. I have to get home. She’ll be worrying.”

  Reluctantly Maggie released him from her embrace. She pulled the sheets up to her chin and watched the snow already piling up on the windowsill. Then her eyes moved to her lover as he slowly retrieved his trousers from the floor beside the bed.

  “Maybe,” she said softly, “you should just tell her tonight.”

  With a look of consternation in his eyes, Roger turned to face her. “Tell her?” he asked.

  “About us,” she said boldly. “That you love someone else. Maybe she would give you a divorce.”

  Roger’s forehead was ridged with pain. He turned away from her and stared out the window. His pants dangled from his hand.

  Maggie leaned up on one elbow and reached out to touch his thigh. “Why not just tell her and get it over with. She may agree to the divorce. You won’t know unless you try.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

  Maggie drew back her hand. “Why not? Roger, we love each other.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he turned to look at her sadly. “I told you a long time ago that it wasn’t fair. Maggie, I have to be honest with you. I have a family. A kid in school, a house, a mortgage. I have responsibilities. They need me.”

  Maggie stared at him blankly. “I need you too,” she whispered.

  “We have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Slowly she rolled over and buried her face in her arms. He began to dress in silence.

  “Maggie,” Jess said softly. “Can we talk about it?”

  Maggie jerked her head away from the window and saw him looking down at her, his eyes dark and troubled.

  “Whatever it is,” he said, “why don’t we talk it over? I wasn’t trying to pressure you. Honestly.”

  Maggie sighed and shook her head. “I know you weren’t. It’s not you. It’s me. Really. But I can’t help it. I should never have spent this time with you. I knew this would happen. It was a mistake. I just can’t. There’s too much in the way. Oh, I’m not making any sense,” she said.

  “I thought you liked being with me,” he said.

  “I do,” she said. “That’s the problem.”

  “Look,” he said, “it’s not the easiest thing for me, either.”

  She looked at him sadly. “Believe me,” she said. “It’s best this way. For you too.”

  “Maggie, what are you…”

  “Jess, I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

  “Tell me why,” he pressed her.

  “No, I… I have to go.” She pushed past him. “I have my car,” she said, grabbing her coat from a chair in the living room. “I can find my way out.”

  You’re a fool, she thought slamming the car door shut. Do you want to tell him about yourself? Do you want to see his face when you tell him you spent the last twelve years in prison? Stay away from him. Do your job, live quietly, mind your puppy. That’s what you came here to do. Stay away from him. You are not like other people. You can’t live like other people. Stop pretending that you can.

  Tears blurred her vision as she drove through the dark country roads. No feelings, she thought. That was how she had planned it. Just peace, and solitude, and a gradual subsiding of the painful memories. Maybe, after a while, a few friends, carefully chosen. That was how she had envisioned it. Not the emotional turmoil of a love affair. That was the last thing she needed. She wasn’t strong enough now. Safety. Anonymity. That was what she really wanted.

  But even as she thought all these things, his face was crowding her resolve. Her skin felt as if it had been restored to life by his touch. Her heavy heart kept being pierced by the persistent thought, You’ll see him again tomorrow. She wanted to stop it. She did. But she knew she couldn’t.

  The old woman shivered with the cold that seemed to emanate from the pit of her stomach. Her knobby fingers were stiff, like icicles. Beneath the thin flannel nightgown, her spindly legs trembled from the chill. But she was unable to retrieve the afghan, which lay on the floor beside her chair like a heap of funeral flowers on a new grave. Sh
e opened her mouth. A harsh noise came from her throat. Her granddaughter, who sat brooding in a chair across the room, finally looked up and glared at her.

  “What do you want?” Evy demanded. The old woman tried to incline her head toward the blanket on the floor.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Evy snarled. “I’m tired of you.” Evy snatched the long-handled wooden spoon from where it was hanging beside the refrigerator and began to smack it lightly against the sole of her slipper. The steady thwacking and the ticking of the clock above the stove were the only sounds in the kitchen. The old woman stared at her granddaughter, the limp muscles in her face twitching involuntarily.

  “I don’t know why you had to make a fuss like that,” Evy said at last, pointing the spoon at her grandmother across the room. “I didn’t invite her here. I certainly did not. She wanted to talk to me,” Evy said in a scornful, singsong voice. “Talk to me?”

  With a concentrated effort, the old woman pushed her emaciated forearm off the armrest of her chair until it fell, dangling beside the chair, grazing the wheel with her knuckles. The tips of her gnarled fingers could almost reach the peak of the heap of crocheted flowers. She strained to touch it.

  “She found the package under my desk. What was she doing snooping around my desk?” the girl cried. “She should have kept her hands to herself.”

  The old woman snagged a strand of wool on two fingertips. She let out a groan.

  “Stop it,” Evy cried. She leaped from her chair, the wooden spoon in her fist. With a vicious smack she brought it across the old woman’s brittle fingers.

  The old woman’s head and shoulders shot back at the shock of the impact. Evy grabbed a handful of wispy hairs and drew back her grandmother’s head.

  “I’m telling you something,” Evy said slowly. “I want you to listen. I listened to you all those years. You bet I did.” The paper-thin skin of the scalp stood away from the skull in tiny peaks. Evy gave the woman’s head a shake, then let it go. A few white hairs stuck to her damp fingers.

  “The first thing she did when she showed up here was to throw herself at Jess. Jess! And she keeps right on doing it. She thinks I don’t know. This morning she tried to fool me about it. Ha!” Evy began to laugh, a mirthless, gasping sound issuing from her throat. “She thinks I don’t know.” The girl’s laugh was an incredulous scream.

  Suddenly she stopped, interrupted by another sound. It was a moan, faint but agonized, issuing from the direction of the basement. Evy glanced over at the cellar door. The moaning rose and fell. No words. Just a plaintive, incoherent wail of suffering, with little strength behind it.

  Evy fixed her narrowed eyes on her grandmother’s face as the old woman listened to the piteous cries. Tears began to trickle down the creases of the old woman’s withered cheeks, and her frail chest heaved as she struggled to catch a breath.

  Evy returned calmly to her seat beside the refrigerator and threw her grandmother an unctuous smile. “She’ll be sorry,” said the girl. Then she crossed her legs and resumed tapping the spoon against the sole of her slipper.

  8

  Maggie placed her pocketbook in her desk drawer and pulled her chair up to her desk. Then she looked down in surprise. Waiting for her was a flaky, cherry-studded pastry sitting on a piece of waxed paper. She examined it for a moment and then looked up. Grace sat typing with her back to her. There was no one else in sight. Maggie pulled off a piece of the pastry and put it in her mouth. She began to chew it thoughtfully.

  Just then Evy came into the office, carrying a pile of manuscripts. She smiled sheepishly at Maggie. “I hope you like cherry,” she said.

  Maggie swallowed the morsel she was eating and looked at the girl in surprise.

  Evy shrugged. “I got it at the health-food bakery.” She waved her thumb in the general direction of the building next door.

  “I just tried it. It’s good.”

  Evy took a few steps closer to Maggie’s desk and began to fidget.

  “That was nice of you,” said Maggie.

  “I wanted to apologize to you about… you know. What happened last night. My grandmother is sick and sometimes.… Well, I never know how she’s going to act. It was really nice of you to bring the pills over.”

  “Forget it,” said Maggie. “I understand.”

  “I guess I just worry about her, and I don’t want her to get all worked up. Sometimes with strangers, you know.”

  “I’m sorry I upset her,” said Maggie. “Let’s just forget it.”

  Evy smiled shyly at her. “Okay. Thanks.” Then she turned and went over to her desk to sit down.

  An unfamiliar feeling of well-being lightened Maggie’s glum mood. Evy was a good kid, really. It took a lot of courage to apologize that way. She was having a hard time, and Maggie could certainly sympathize with that. She took another bite of the pastry so that Evy could see she was enjoying it. Then she pulled out the file of photographs she had been working on the day before. Maybe Jess was right about her, she thought.

  The day passed for Maggie with hardly a glimpse of Jess, who spent his time in his own office. Their brief exchanges were businesslike. He made no reference to the night before. Although it made her feel slightly melancholy, Maggie told herself firmly that it was best that way. At about three o’clock Jess came into the office with Owen Duggan at his side.

  “Maggie,” he called out.

  She looked up.

  “I want you to try your hand at a little reporting today. Owen’s going over to take some pictures of one of our local legends, Ben McGuffey, who’s retiring next week on his ninetieth birthday. Ben’s a sailmaker, used to ship out on whalers in his younger days. It’ll make kind of a nice story, I think.”

  “Okay.” Maggie gathered up her pad and pencil. “I’m ready to go.”

  “Owen,” Jess went on, “you know what to do. The usual stuff. Kind of help Maggie out if she gets stuck on anything.” He smiled at her reassuringly. Flustered, Maggie avoided Jess’s eyes.

  Owen gave Jess a ragged salute and started for the door. “Looks like rain,” he muttered, squinting up at the sky from the front doorstep. “Come on.” A distant fork of lightning cracked the sky as he motioned to Maggie.

  A little while later, Jess entered the office and walked over to Grace’s desk. He dropped a stapled manuscript on her blotter. Grace picked it up and looked at it.

  “What’s this?” she demanded.

  “First installment of that series on island landmarks,” said Jess. “Give it a thorough going-over.”

  “Are we running this?” she asked.

  “Next week.”

  “I thought you were going to wait on this until Mr. Emmett gets back.”

  “Changed my mind,” Jess said.

  “When is he coming back?” Grace asked petulantly.

  “I dunno. I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  “I wish he’d hurry up,” she whined. “So we could get things settled around here.” She looked significantly in the direction of Maggie’s desk.

  “Why, Grace—what’s the problem?” Jess asked politely.

  The older woman sniffed, and raised her eyebrows. Across the room Evy chewed on her pencil, pretending to be concentrating on the proof sheets in front of her.

  “Well,” Grace went on indignantly, “I just think there’s some unfinished business that can’t be settled until he gets back.”

  “You mean Maggie,” Jess said patiently.

  “I didn’t say that,” Grace protested. “I was just saying that I’ll be glad when Mr. Emmett gets back.”

  “It seems to me,” said Jess firmly, “that we’re a lot better off with the extra help around here. That’s what I intend to tell Mr. Emmett when he gets back. You have to admit, Grace, that your load has been a lot more manageable since she came.”

  Grace emitted a loud sigh. “Whatever you say,” she agreed.

  Jess paused, as if he were going to say something else, and then thought better of it. He di
d not want to start an argument over Maggie. That would not make Grace any more favorably disposed to her. With a shrug, he left the room.

  Grace turned to Evy, who looked up from her proof sheets. Grace rolled her eyeballs and shook her head. “How do you like that?” she demanded.

  “I wasn’t really paying attention,” Evy claimed innocently.

  “Looks like if he has anything to say about it we’re going to have Miss Forgetful Butterfingers with us forever.” Grace groaned.

  “Maybe not,” said Evy.

  “Well, didn’t you hear that? She’s got him so he can’t see straight already. We don’t need her here.”

  “Oh, well. What’s the difference?” said Evy. “She’s not that bad.”

  Grace snorted indignantly, annoyed that the girl was not supporting her view. Knowing Evy’s weakness, she threw the girl a sly glance. “I think he’s got kind of a crush on her, don’t you?”

  Evy lowered her eyes to the pages in her hand. Grace could see her whitening. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “That’s what I think,” Grace announced. “I wonder if they’re up to no good together. I’ll bet. He sure looks at her that way.”

  Evy stood up abruptly and stuck her chin out in the air. “Who cares?” she said. “I have to get some new erasers in the art room.”

  “Go ahead,” said Grace. “I’m not stopping you.”

  A crack of thunder greeted Maggie and Owen as they emerged from the sailmaker’s shop.

  “We’d better hurry,” said Maggie.

  “Oh, it won’t rain for a while yet,” the photographer assured her. “I’ve become a semi-pro forecaster since I’ve lived here.”

  “Well, I have work to do.”

  Owen glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly five.”

  Maggie ignored his remark and started walking. The photographer made her uncomfortable. All during their talk with the old sailor she felt his eyes on her. It was not lascivious. It was more as if he was studying her, trying to place her. She was eager to get away from him. However, Owen kept pace with her as she hurried along.

  “That was kind of fun,” he said. “Ben’s quite a character. Did you notice his hands? Brown as an Indian’s. And those long fingers. Really beautiful hands. They tell a whole life’s story.”