A Perfect Love Page 16

  “All right,” she managed to mutter, her tongue feeling oddly detached.

  Dr. Marc walked her to the door, then squeezed her shoulder. She barely felt the pressure of his hands, so preoccupied was she with new and whirling thoughts.

  An hour later, Barbara paced the dock, walking up and down with her hands behind her back. In the hour since she’d left the doctor’s office she had vacillated from wanting to have the surgery to swearing off hospitals forever and urging Russell to think about adoption. After all, what did it matter, really, if a baby came from your own cells? Every baby deserved a happy home, yet thousands of children around the world would never know the love of a mother and father. She and Russell could be parents without having to think about surgery and scars and general anesthesia.

  Still . . . the miracle of childbirth was a precious thing. How must it feel to have a life stirring within your womb? To know that the coming child was a combination of you and the man you loved more than life itself . . .

  Her heart leaped when the Barbara Jean appeared on the horizon. She waited until the boat drew closer, then lifted her hand high over her head and waved, hoping Russell would look out the cabin window and see her. He would be alone now, having dropped his mates at Perkins Cove, and he’d be anxious to hear her report.

  Russell steered the boat to the dock, then tossed her a mooring line. She slipped it over a post, then shyly walked forward until he jumped from the deck and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Hi, daddy,” she whispered in his ear.

  He pulled back, his eyes searching her face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” she said, gulping, “that we might be able to have babies if I have surgery. I went to see Dr. Marc.”

  He hugged her close. “I’m proud of you, honey.”

  Though he was hugging her so tightly Barbara felt a little strangled, she pressed on. “But something’s wrong with me. Endometriosis. That means I’ll have to have surgery, and after that it’ll take time to recover, and after that there’s a possibility we still won’t be able to have kids—”

  “But there’s a chance we will, right?”

  She pulled back this time, and looked him evenly in the eye. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s gonna take time.”

  He reached out and touched her hair, her cheek. “Babs, we’ve got time. And we’ve got love to share. I’ll do whatever you want to do about the surgery, but why don’t we think about adoption too? Why not raise a family both ways, through adoption and biology?”

  Unexpected laughter bubbled up from her throat. “You mean it?”

  “Ayuh.” His brown eyes caressed her. “I do. I think you’d be a great mom to a dozen kids.”

  Wordlessly, Barbara reached out and hugged him tight. With a man like this beside her, she could face anything . . . but maybe two or three kids would be more manageable than a dozen.

  His hand fell upon her head. “Have you told your mother any of this?”

  Barbara shook her head. “I wanted to tell you first.”

  His smile told her how pleased he was that she’d taken another step toward independence. “Then we’ll tell your folks together.”

  Russell slipped his arm around her shoulder and began to lead her toward the B&B. She matched his stride, step for step. “Mom made meat loaf for dinner.”

  “Good. Has your dad recovered from his stomach bug?”

  “I don’t know. He and Pastor Winslow and Stanley were at Dr. Marc’s when I came in. I hope their stomachs have settled down.”

  Russell laughed, and as they climbed the hill Barbara thought she’d never heard a more beautiful sound.

  Barbara took her seat at the table, then squeezed her husband’s hand. Her mother blinked at the sign of tenderness, then her gaze swept the steaming dishes. Apparently convinced all was in order, she took her seat next to Floyd.

  “Grace,” she reminded him.

  Thankfully, Floyd’s prayer was short. Cleta looked a little perturbed at her husband’s brief blessing, but Barbara sighed in gratitude. The sooner she got this announcement over with, the sooner she could get on with her life.

  “How’s your stomach, Pop Lansdown?” Russell asked, passing the potatoes.

  “Still a mite queasy,” Floyd answered. He took a healthy portion of the mashed potatoes, but shook his head when Cleta offered him the meat loaf.

  Russell glanced at Barbara, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. She nervously pleated the napkin in her lap.

  Floyd looked at Russell. “How was the catch today?” he asked, gingerly tasting the potatoes.

  “All the traps were full. It’s been a good week.”

  “Put some money back against the hard times,” Cleta advised, not for the first time.

  Russell winked at Barbara. “We are.”

  Barbara took a deep breath. “Mom, Dad—I went to see Dr. Marc today.”

  “I knew it! I knew you didn’t feel well,” Cleta burst out. “You should have told me!”

  Barbara lowered her head. “Mom, I went to talk to him about why Russell and I haven’t been able to have a baby.”

  Cleta locked her lower jaw. “Babies will come along in due time.”

  Taking Barbara’s hand, Russell nodded his reassurance. “Tell ’em, honey.”

  Barbara turned to her mother. “I have a problem.”

  Cleta paled. “A problem?”

  Russell leaped to the rescue. “It can be repaired with surgery. It’s nothing dangerous to her health, just to her fertility.”

  Cleta turned on him, her eyes snapping fire. “And who made you the expert?”

  “Nobody. Dr. Marc said so.”

  She snapped her mouth shut. “Oh.”

  Floyd set his fork down and looked at Barbara. “You’re sure it’s nothing dangerous?”

  “It’s endometriosis, Daddy. A female problem. Dr. Marc said there’s a procedure that should take care of it. It’s done all the time.”

  “Surgery? On my baby? And you didn’t say a word about it?” Springing up, Cleta grabbed a dishtowel and held it to her face.

  Barbara cast a quick glance at Russell, then reached toward her mother. “It’s OK, Mom. It’s going to be all right. Once I have the surgery, Russell and I will greatly improve our chances of pregnancy. But we’ve decided we’re going to give you a grandchild any way we can. We’re going to look into adoption, too.”

  “Grandchildren would be nice,” Floyd said. “Real nice.”

  Cleta lowered the dishtowel and met Barbara’s eyes. “You—you went to see the doctor without me? Something as important as this, and you went alone?”

  Barbara lowered her gaze. The hurt and accusation in her mother’s eyes cut deeply.

  “I felt it was something I needed to do on my own, Mom.”

  Cleta lifted her chin. “I see. Well. Fine, then.”

  But it wasn’t fine. Barbara could see that in her mother’s jerky movements as she stacked her dishes and carried them to the sink.

  “Mom, I’m sorry you’re upset.”

  Cleta turned on her with the fury of a wounded tigress. “You’re not sorry about anything, Missy. You obviously don’t care a whit about my feelings. Alst I’ve ever done is sacrifice for you, work for you, suffer for you, and yet you cut me out of your life at the time I would most like to be there—”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I guess I can’t do anything right.” Turning on the ball of her foot, Barbara fled the kitchen and ran upstairs.

  Cleta buried her face in her apron and bawled, rattling Floyd’s nerves. Black liquid splashed over the side of his coffee cup as he lifted it. After-dinner coffee and dessert just weren’t relaxing when one’s wife was on a crying jag.

  He took a sip from his coffee and lowered his cup, resolved to weather the storm. The fur had finally hit the fan and he didn’t know why Cleta was so surprised. He’d seen this coming for months.

  Cleta lifted her head, then dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Barbara didn�
��t even tell me, Floyd. Me, her mother. She told someone else first!”

  “She told her husband, Cleta.”

  Cleta bawled harder into the cotton fabric, pushing out words between her sobs. “We’ve always shared everything, the good and the bad. How could she have told Russell before telling me? I knew her first! And running off to see Dr. Marc that way, it’s downright indecent.” Flapping her apron, she frantically fanned the air. “I should have been with her at the doctor’s office. It’s a mother’s place to be with her daughter at a time like this.”

  Shoving his half-eaten cobbler aside, Floyd reached for his pipe. Women and their hysterics; it was all a man could do to keep his wits. Russell had had sense enough to flee the kitchen even before Barbara.

  He picked up his pipe, then fixed his wife in a steady gaze. “Won’t do you any good to get worked up over this, Mama. Barbara has a right to tell her husband anything she chooses without consulting you.”

  “All those hours—those agonizing hours it took to bring that child into the world, and this is the thanks I get.”

  “I was there too.” Floyd studied his callused right hand. Cleta had squeezed the stuffing right out of him that night.

  “Well.” She sniffed, reaching for a dry corner of the apron to blot her streaming eyes. “I suppose she was excited—probably didn’t stop to consider my feelings, just blurted out the news to the first person she saw, which happened to be Russell.”

  Floyd drew on the pipe bowl, then fanned out a match. “I don’t misdoubt that.” He’d learn a long time ago to agree with his wife.

  “No, that wasn’t what happened. She was gone too long.” Her eyes narrowed. “She ran straight from Dr. Marc’s to the dock, and waited for Russell to come in, then told him. She could have told me first, but she must have gone to the docks. And did you see the look on his face when they came in? Smug. Like the cat that’d eaten the canary.”

  Floyd couldn’t stop a grin. “Ayuh. Reminded me of how I looked the day we found out you were having Barbara.”

  They had prayed for seven years before the good Lord granted them a child. Floyd knew he’d never forget the look on Cleta’s face moments after the delivery. Why, she’d gazed at that baby like a little piece of heaven had been delivered into her arms.

  Sadly, Barbara would be their only child. Later that night Cleta had complications and the doctors whisked her off for emergency surgery. But she took the news well; nothing mattered but that little red-headed ball of life protectively cradled in her arms.

  As if she’d been revisiting the same memory, Cleta dropped her head and cried harder.

  Floyd rose from the table and carried his dishes to the counter. As he plugged the sink and turned on the hot water tap, his patience evaporated. “Dadburn it, Cleta, you’re making a mountain out of a mole hill. It’s time for us to step back from the front page of our child’s life. Give her some room. Let her breathe, for goodness sake.”

  “You’re taking her side. You don’t care if she hurts me.”

  Floyd shot a stream of Palmolive in the water. Bubbles boiled around his wrists as he turned to face his wife. “You know that’s not true!”

  She kept boohooing. “You don’t love me—I’ve known it for a long time. You’re tired of me and you don’t love me anymore.”

  “I do love you, Cleta. And I love Barbara. But I’m tired of seeing my girls tied up in emotional knots. Barbara is being pulled in two opposite directions, woman. Can’t you see that? She wants to be a dutiful daughter and a good wife. You make her feel like a criminal when someone mentions her need to have her own place.”

  “Why does she need her own place? She doesn’t have to lift a finger around here.”

  “That’s the problem. She needs to lift a finger and a mop and skillet once in a while. Maybe she and Russell want their privacy. Maybe they want to run around the house in their skivvies or eat supper at midnight. Stop mollycoddling her. You want her to be self-sufficient, don’t you? A productive citizen, give something back to society?”

  Cleta sat mute, looking as stubborn as a Maine mule.

  “Don’t you?”

  “She is productive—I don’t see a problem.”

  Floyd drew a deep breath. “Russell does. And Russell is who she needs to be thinking about. Doesn’t mean she plans to throw you to the wolves; it just means she’s a grown woman with the God-given right to have her own life.”

  Cleta lifted her chin. “That boy’s been perfectly happy here for three years.”

  “Not perfectly.”

  “What?”

  “I think the boy wants his wife in their own place.”

  Cleta straightened, blowing her nose on a tissue. Floyd took hope from the sight. Maybe she was coming around.

  “Listen to us,” she said, dabbing at the end of her nose. “We’re sounding like it’s the end of the world because Barbara didn’t tell us the news first. You know how she is; she doesn’t get excited that easy, but Dr. Marc’s news must have put her in such a dither she told Russell before she thought.”

  She pushed back from the table and dried her eyes. “Tomorrow is Russell’s birthday. I’ll go first thing into Ogunquit and buy that new spread and drapes—no, better, we’ll redo the whole room for him. There.” She threw Floyd an accusing look. “Is that nice enough for you? Bedroom furniture, a spread, and new drapes. That will make a lovely birthday gift. He’ll see how much I appreciate him.”

  Floyd frowned. “You talking about that pink spread and curtains?”

  “It’s not pink, Floyd. It’s cotton candy, a very neutral color. Then I’ll stop by the butcher shop and I’ll get some of those nice veal cutlets Barbara loves.”

  “Russell wants Mexican casserole for his birthday dinner.”

  “Oh, he isn’t particular, and Barbara loves veal cutlets. Now, let’s see.” Tears dried, Cleta resumed command and reached for her grocery list. “Veal cutlets, string beans, a nice salad, and lemon cake for dessert.”

  “Russell hates lemon; why don’t you make chocolate? Chocolate’s a man’s cake. Chocolate with black walnuts in the icing.”

  She gave him an indulgent smile. “Black walnuts give Barbara heartburn.” She moved toward the kitchen door, scribbling on her notepad.

  “Dadburn it, Cleta!” Floyd called. “It’s Russell’s birthday!”

  “I know, dear! And it’s going to be lovely!”

  “Ayuh,” Fred grumbled. “For everyone but Russell.”

  She left the kitchen through the swinging door, but returned an instant later, her head jutting through the doorway. She narrowed her eyes. “Are we in a mood this evening?”

  “Cleta, you can’t buy that boy a pink spread and drapes!”

  “Floyd.” Her eyes went as sharp as daggers. “Whose side are you on, mine or Russell’s?”

  “Didn’t know there were sides.”

  “Which one, Floyd?” She stepped through the doorway and crossed both arms.

  Floyd turned to face her, soapsuds dripping from his crossed forearms. “Don’t you buy that spread and curtains, Cleta.”

  The tips of her fingers went white as she squeezed her elbows. “Don’t you threaten me, Floyd.”

  “I’m not threatening you, I’m telling you not to humiliate that poor man because you want to bribe Barbara into living here forever.”

  Fire shot from her pupils. Widening her stance, she assumed battle position. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me, Floyd.” A glaze covered her eyes. “You don’t love me anymore.”

  “I do love you—I’m trying to keep you from making the biggest mistake you’ve ever made. Feeding Russell veal cutlets instead of Mexican casserole, making lemon cake when the boy loves chocolate—how long do you think he’ll put up with your slights? You iron Barbara’s clothes, but make Russell iron his own. You always put Barbara first.”

  “She’s our child.”

  “So is Russell—starting the day he married our daughter.”

&nbs
p; Cleta waved the rebuke aside. “Of course I’m fond of the boy, but I don’t see how you can expect a mother to love a son-in-law as much as she loves her own blood.”

  “Love is an action word, Cleta, and you can start loving Russell by acting like you care about him! Make the boy a chocolate cake!”

  “You don’t love me,” she sniffed.

  “Oh, good grief.” He turned back to the sink, having had more than enough of the conversation. Cleta would do what she would do, and nothing he could say would change her mind now.

  Why did life have to be so complicated? Cleta had to see what she was doing before it was too late. For the last three years she’d been blind to her subtle but distinct interference in Barbara’s life. A parent should have enough sense to know when a child was ready to go out into the world on her own.

  At almost twenty-three, Barbara was overly ripe. In fact, she was spoiled rotten.

  Chapter Nine

  The following afternoon, on Russell’s birthday, Floyd watched workmen carry in a maple headboard, a new king-size orthopedic mattress and box springs, a chest of drawers, two nightstands, and a dresser with a mirror. Micah paused while mulching a flower bed to watch the activity with his jaw agape.

  Sheesh. Floyd sank down in the swing and pulled on his pipe, smoke fogging over his head in angry whorls. Cleta was being some generous with his money.

  One of the workmen smiled and said hello as he passed the swing carrying a large parcel. Floyd set his jaw when he saw a wisp of pink fabric poking out of the sack.

  Dadburn that Cleta. She had sacked herself up a whole bunch of trouble now.

  He knew without looking that they’d be having veal cutlets and lemon cake for dinner.

  Russell Higgs stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and waved his hand to clear the fog from the room. He’d taken off from work early, hoping to spend some time on his birthday with his wife, and he half-suspected Barbara had some sort of grand surprise for him. She had been wide-eyed and jumpy when he went into the shower, so there was no telling what she had planned.

  He hesitated. Yes, there were definite sounds of movement from behind the closed bathroom door. He felt a grin spreading over his face. What had she done? Gotten him that new lounger he’d been eying at the furniture store? Or maybe she’d splurged on that new wide-screen television he’d been hinting about. Sure, the TV would be awfully crowded in their bedroom, but he was fervently hoping they’d be out of this place within a few months.