CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TWYLA FELT ROB’S hand pressing protectively against the small of her back, an echo of the way he had held her during the dance. But unlike that moment, when she had felt so vulnerable yet so safe in his arms, Twyla was in a free fall, and no one, not even Dr. Rob Carter, could save her now.
“I thought he was older than you,” he said.
“His wife graduated the same year as me.”
As she watched the man who had humiliated her seven years ago, she imagined feeling the rush of the wind over her overheated skin as she fell, spinning helplessly out of control. Dear Lord, what had she been thinking, coming here like this? Why had she thought she could survive a confrontation?
“Let’s go say hi,” Rob suggested, increasing the pressure of his hand.
“No.”
“Oh, yeah. We’re going to get it over with.”
“Let’s just leave.”
“With our tails between our legs? Sorry, honey. That’s not my style.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Spinelli’s got a small fortune riding on this. And if you don’t mind my saying so, the stakes are even higher for you.”
He took her by the hand and started across the room. She thought of pleading with him, turning boneless and sinking to the floor, shouting “fire” to clear the building, but all of those options would create a spectacle, and that was the last thing she needed.
“Please, Rob, please,” she said between her teeth. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
* * *
ROB STOPPED WALKING. “Twyla, there’s a lot you haven’t told me. We barely know each other.” And we’d better keep it that way.
He thought about what people had said about her father and grew cold inside. He was a pathologist, not Dr. Joyce Brothers. He had no idea how to deal with people who told him the deepest secrets of their hearts.
“I know all I need to know,” he said brusquely, and started walking again, her hand clutched tightly in his. “You can’t let yourself be intimidated by some horse’s ass.”
The man called Jake Barnard was just lifting a drink to his mouth when his wife spotted Twyla. Rob saw Beverly Barnard’s hand come up and give a smart tug on Jake’s sleeve. Discreetly moving his arm away from his wife, he looked across the room and spied Twyla.
His only reaction was to finish the drink and help himself to another from a passing waiter’s tray.
Rob could sense the tension in Twyla, and he suddenly felt cruel, forcing her into a situation she had been at great pains to avoid. But as he approached the square-jawed Jake and his willowy wife, his resolve firmed. Perhaps the meeting would clear away old scar tissue.
A few dozen gazes tracked their progress across the hall. Twyla did an admirable job ignoring them as she walked up to her ex-husband.
“Hello, Jake,” she said.
The guy was good at guarding his thoughts, but not that good, Rob observed. The instant he saw Twyla, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. She was a knockout in every sense of the word.
Rob could just imagine what was going through Jake’s mind as he stood next to his pale, elegant wife and stared at his vibrant, gorgeous ex. You should have waited around for her, pal, he thought. But he was selfishly glad Jake had turned to his heiress instead.
“Hey, Twyla,” he said, visibly trying to get a grip. “Long time no see.”
“Uh-huh.” Her smile seemed frozen in place. “Jake Barnard, this is Rob Carter.”
“My wife,” Jake said, indicating with a nod. “Beverly.”
They shook hands all around. Rob noted that Jake had a firm, practiced grip and that Beverly’s hand was icy cold.
“We weren’t even going to come tonight,” she murmured. “But Willard Stokes insisted.” Her gaze coasted over Twyla. “Now I know why.”
“Let’s get caught up,” Jake suggested, leading the way to some benches at the side of the hall. “That’s what these things are for, right?” He finished another drink and turned to his wife. “Baby, go grab us a few beers, how about it?”
She hesitated, just for a beat, long enough for Rob to read the flicker of alarm in her eyes. Jake appeared to miss it completely as he sat down on a bench, spreading his arms wide in a comfortable, this-is-my-turf pose. Rob waited for Twyla to take a seat, then sat beside her. Beverly arrived with a tray of three beers and a mixed drink for herself.
Jake cracked his open. “A toast.”
“To what?” Twyla asked.
“Old acquaintances?”
“New acquaintances,” Rob said, and took a long drink. The beer felt cold and biting and incredibly welcome. “To my future with the finest woman in the West,” he added, feeling fiercely protective of Twyla.
She made a soft choking sound. Jake didn’t seem to notice. “What’ve you been up to, Twyla?” he asked. “You look incredible.”
She froze in the middle of lifting her beer to her lips. “Do you really want to do this here, Jake? Now?”
He laughed easily. “Guess not. Whatever the lady wants.”
Rob took another swig of beer, hoping to cool the fury burning inside him. This guy had abandoned Twyla and his own son. He hadn’t even bothered to ask about Brian.
“Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been up to,” Twyla suggested. “You were always so good at that.”
“Ouch.” Jake gave an exaggerated wince. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, eh, buddy?” He sent Rob a conspiratorial wink.
Rob stared him down. “Sweeter than a rose,” he stated.
“Okay, I’m game,” Jake said, ignoring Rob’s comment. “A few years of lawyering in Jackson. Then I got myself elected to the Congress of the good old U. S. of A.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you vote for me?”
“I don’t live in your district.”
As they talked, two things became instantly clear. Jake Barnard and his wife drank too much, too fast. And they despised each other. He wasn’t sure how he could tell, but the chilling truth lay before him. Perhaps it was in the stiffness of their postures or the cutting quality of the looks and remarks that passed between them. Or in the exhaustion apparent in Beverly’s eyes. She was a beautiful woman, but she lacked the expressive face of a woman secure with herself or in a relationship. There was a forced quality to her smiles, a veiled distaste in the way she regarded her husband.
This probably was, Rob deduced, one of those high-profile marriages that had never been founded on love and couldn’t withstand the demands of a U.S. congressman’s schedule.
He glanced over at Twyla, who seemed fascinated by Jake’s account of his first congressional race. Rob had an urge to shake her, to remind her that this was the guy who dumped her after she’d put him through law school. This was the guy who had turned his back on the son he’d never met. This was the guy who had soured her on men so that little old ladies had to force her to go on dates.
“I hear you’re a doctor.” Beverly plucked an olive out of her drink, held it between extra-long fingernails, and then ate it. “What sort of doctor are you?”
Funny. She was a martini drinker. Just like—“A pathologist,” he said quickly.
“I see.”
People never said much once he told them his specialty. After all, what was there to say? “Seen any good abnormal tissues lately?” She leaned back, probably fearful he’d start talking about Legionnaires’ disease or E. coli outbreaks. People rarely wanted to hear about what he did, which was one reason he liked his specialty. Other doctors were pressed with questions from those hoping for a quick street-corner consultation, but it rarely happened to Rob.
The weird thing was, he didn’t mind giving the occasional on-the-spot diagnosis. Didn’t mind looking into a person’s eyes rather than into a high-powered microscope.
“And you?” he asked, filling the long conversational pause.
“Full-time wife,” she said, “which is more work than you might think. The fund-raisers, the parties, the charity auctions.” She waved a long-suffering hand and seemed not to notice that his face reddened at the mention of an auction. “It runs me ragged sometimes, so you don’t want to hear about it.” She punctuated her statement with a deep swig of her drink.
Rob caught himself looking at her shoes. Though he wasn’t one to notice a woman’s shoes, he noticed these, because only last week, Lauren had bought the same ones. They were fairly ordinary-looking shoes, although they had a little gold thing in the heel that was the mark of an Italian designer. He still wouldn’t have noticed, except that Lauren had been unwrapping the parcel while he was there, and the sales slip had fallen out.
Glancing at it, he’d felt his jaw unhinge. The price of those shoes could feed an indigent family for a month. And here were the same ones on the feet of a woman who bore an eerie resemblance to Lauren herself. Studying her, Rob got a glimpse of a future he didn’t want to see. Everything about this woman was correct—the clothes, the accent, the patina of expensive schooling. Everything that Rob had thought was important, significant, necessary for a successful life. And yet at the heart of it all, there was something essentially unhappy and incomplete about her.
Because she was married to a jerk?
That was probably a large part of it. But at one time, the jerk had been the sort of man Twyla McCabe wanted to marry. He must have had his brand of charm.
Rob finished his beer, wondering if he was going nuts, analyzing the marriage of strangers he would probably never see again. But deep in his gut lay the uncomfortable realization that he and Lauren were on a path similar to the one Jake and Beverly had taken. The high-profile socializing. The glitzy life. Living in the right place, owning the right things, driving the right car. From the outside, it looked like the American Dream. The one he had formulated by reading Forbes magazine because he had no family to teach him what really mattered.
Not for the first time, he felt a sick lurch of doubt. What if his idea of having it all was the wrong idea?
* * *
TWYLA PUSHED OPEN the door to the ladies’ room and let loose with an explosive sigh of relief. She had made it to the belly of the beast and so far she had survived. Amazing. She had been certain she wouldn’t be able to bear coming back here—much less face Jake—without breaking down.
She used the bathroom, then spent a long time at the sink, delving into her impossibly tiny red evening bag for whatever cosmetics she could find.
She glanced up into the mirror and saw the reflection of someone coming in, her arm through the handle of a baby carrier. A discontented mewling sound issued from a mass of pastel-colored blankets. The woman didn’t see Twyla at first. She sat down in the lounge area and unbuttoned her blouse.
Twyla snapped her lipstick shut loudly to alert the woman, then stepped into the lounge area. The woman had one hand on her bra strap. Her face softened into a smile.
“Twyla? Twyla McCabe?”
Twyla studied her, desperate to figure out who she was. But the open blouse obscured the name tag. All she saw was a tired-looking woman with limp brown hair and a thickening body.
“It’s me, Darlene Poole.” The woman picked up the baby and tucked it into the crook of her arm. “Darlene Poole Lindstrom, and this is Melanie.”
Twyla sank to the bench, peering wonderingly at the baby. “Oh, Darlene, of course I remember you.” But you’ve changed.
“Your baby is adorable. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Darlene gave a dreamy smile and put the fussing baby to her breast. Instant silence pervaded the lounge. Twyla always felt a touch of nostalgia when she saw a newborn. She adored babies. When she first found out she was pregnant, she had envisioned two or three kids. That was before Jake had dumped her.
“Your first?” she asked Darlene.
“Oh, no. Fourth. We weren’t even going to come tonight, but at the last minute we decided to get a sitter and drop in for a little while.”
“Four kids,” Twyla said in admiration. “That’s quite a brood.”
“Tommy and I left family planning up to Mother Nature, and that’s how we ended up with four. He’s a rural mail carrier, of all things,” Darlene said, fondness softening her smile. “Not quite the milkman, but we kid each other about it.”
Darlene and Tommy had been destined for something quite different, Twyla remembered. The drill team leader and the football quarterback. Winningly attractive and filled with enthusiasm, they had gone off to the University of Wyoming together. Twyla had assumed they would wind up with professional careers in a big city somewhere.
While Darlene chatted about her kids, Twyla was quietly amazed at the change in her. From peppy, vivacious cheerleader, she had turned into a decidedly matronly stay-at-home mom.
Darlene stroked a loving hand over the baby’s downy head. “Surprised?” she asked.
“A little,” Twyla admitted.
“We had to drop out of college after Thomas—he’s number two. We moved back here because my folks gave us the house for a song and moved to Scottsdale to retire. I just got my tomatoes and pole beans in,” she said. “Kids and the garden. That’s all I have time for.”
She finished nursing the baby and changed her with the brisk, efficient movements of a very experienced mother. Twyla felt a momentary pang. She adored Brian with everything that was in her. But she had always dreamed of having more kids.
“But you,” she said, placing the drowsy baby in the carrier. “You’re more gorgeous than ever, and that guy. Everyone’s talking about him. He looks like 007. And I hear he’s a doctor.”
“We’re…very happy,” Twyla said, certain Darlene, whose contentment was so genuine, would see through the deception.
But she didn’t. Giving Twyla a brief hug, she said, “I’d better go. Tommy wants to get home early. He’s taking the boys fishing tomorrow.”
Twyla held the door for Darlene and followed her out of the ladies’ room. Tom Lindstrom hadn’t changed much—he was still handsome and vigorous—yet Twyla noticed a certain aura about him. A maturity.
She couldn’t help but smile at the palpable, protective love that radiated from him, from them both, when he took his wife in his arms. With the infant carrier held between them, he slow-danced with Darlene. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his shoulder, and a smile of aching sweetness curved her mouth.
None of the big dreams Darlene and Tom had dreamed had come true. But clearly they couldn’t be more content. They were absolutely radiant with happiness.
“You all right?” Rob touched her elbow and she turned. She hadn’t seen him approach her.
“Fine. But you must be bored stiff by now.”
“Your ex is a barrel of laughs. Let’s dance.” Without waiting for her to reply, he slid his arm around her and drew her out to the middle of the floor.
Twyla pressed a hand to his shoulder and felt glad for his touch. There was nothing behind it, she realized. He was here to fulfill an obligation—nothing more. Yet the mere sensation of his touch, of his holding her, made her feel stronger, more sure of herself.
“You survived the encounter,” Rob said, speaking quietly into her ear. “Lived to tell the tale.”
“It appears I did.” She looked beyond him, finding Jake by spotting the largest crowd. He had always been popular. That was something that hadn’t changed. Yet she no longer regarded him through rose-colored glasses, or with eyes blurred by the tears of hurt.
Based on the brief encounter with him and Beverly, Twyla felt no yearning for that life. No wish to be a part of his world. And fiercely glad that she had Brian and this marvelous night with a great guy.
“Well?” Rob asked. “You want to tell me how it was for you?”
Surprising herself, she said, “It was…not what I expected. Seeing him again didn’t upset me the way I thought it might. He’s just some guy who wasn’t very nice to me once upon a time, and tonight I realized that none of it was my fault.”
With startling tenderness, he touched a wisp of her hair, tucking the stray lock behind her ear before he bent to say, “I guess that was worth coming for.”
“Uh-huh.” Suddenly her mouth was too dry to say more. She wasn’t used to talking about such things, not to anyone. She wasn’t used to being touched and held, and she liked it so much it embarrassed her.
“You want to get out of here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Back to the lodge?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know it’s dangerous to be so agreeable all the time?”
She laughed. “Uh-huh.”