Season Of Passion Part 2

One of his teammates was their best man, one of her roommates from Stanford was her maid of honor. It was a strange little wedding at city hall, and Sports Ill.u.s.trated covered the story. She was Tom's now, entirely and forever. And she looked exquisite in a dress that was layer after layer of white organdie, with delicate embroidery and a little-girl scooped neck and huge, puffed, old-fas.h.i.+oned sleeves. It had been a present from Felicia, who was growing increasingly fond of the doe-like young model oddly paired with one of the country's heroes. For Kate she had chosen the cream of the store's spring line.

Kate looked like a beautiful child at the wedding, with her long hair swept up on her head in a gentle Victorian style, threaded with lily of the valley. She carried a bouquet of the same tiny fragrant white flowers. There were tears in her eyes and Tom's as they exchanged wide gold rings and the judge p.r.o.nounced them married.

They spent their honeymoon in Europe, and she showed him all her favorite spots. It was his first time abroad, and turned into an education for both of them. He was growing in sophistication, and she was growing up.

The first year of their marriage was idyllic. Kate went everywhere Tom did, did everything Tom did, and spent her spare time writing poetry and keeping a journal. Her only problem was that she didn't like being financially dependent on Tom. Felicia's position enabled Kate to get all the work she wanted, but her constant traveling with Tom made it hard for her to model as much as she felt she should. There was still the tiny income from a small trust her grandmother had left her, but that was barely enough for pocket money; it was impossible to reciprocate the lavish gifts Tom constantly gave her. On their first anniversary Kate announced that she had made a decision. She was giving up traveling with him to stay home and model full-time. It made sense to her. But not to him. It was hard enough traveling with the team he worked for now, without having to do it alone. He needed Kate with him. But she thought he needed a financially independent wife. He put up a fight, but he lost. She was firm. And three months later, he broke his leg in a game.

"Well, Princess, looks like the end of the season." He was good-humored about it when he flew home. But they both knew that it might be the end of his career. He was over thirty, the deathly magic number. And it was a bad break; the leg was a mess. He was getting tired of the game anyway, or at least that was what he said. There were other things he wanted more, like children, stability, a future. The move to the San Francisco team had made him professionally insecure; it was something about the chemistry of the team, or maybe the constant underlying threats of the manager, who called him "old man." The man's att.i.tude drove Tom nuts, but he lived with it, hating the manager every inch of the way.

He also worried about leaving Kate when he traveled. She was twenty years old; she needed a husband around more often than he could be. He'd be home with her now, though, because of the leg. Or he thought he would be. As it turned out, he was home. Kate wasn't. She was getting a lot of modeling work, and she had signed up for a cla.s.s on women in literature, at State. She went twice a week.

"And there's a super creative writing cla.s.s next term."

"Terrific." She looked just like a kid when she talked about the courses. And he felt like what they called him on the team. Old man. A very bored, nervous, lonely old man. He missed the game. He missed Kate. He felt as if he were missing life. Within a month, he punched out a guy in a bar, wound up in jail, and the story was all over the papers. He talked about it constantly, he had nightmares about it. What if they suspended him? But they didn't. The charges were dropped, and he sent the man a big check. The leg still hadn't healed, though, and Kate was still out modeling most of the time. Nothing had changed. And a month later, he decked another guy in a bar, breaking the man's jaw. This time the charges stuck and he paid a whopping fine. The team manager was frighteningly quiet.

"Maybe you should go into boxing instead of football, huh, sweetheart?" Kate still thought Tom's antics were funny.

"Look, dammit, you may think it's amusing, kiddo, but I don't. I'm going G.o.dd.a.m.n nuts sitting around here waiting for this f.u.c.king leg to heal." Kate got the message. He was desperate. Maybe about a lot of things, not just the leg. The next day she came home with a present. After all, that was why she modeled-so she could offer him gifts. She had bought two tickets to Paris.

The trip was just what he needed. They spent two weeks in Paris, a week in Cannes, five days in Dakar, and a weekend in London. Tom spoiled her rotten, and she was thrilled with having bought him the trip. They came back restored, and Tom's leg had healed. Life was even better than before. There were no more bar fights and he began practicing with the team again. Kate turned twenty-one, and for her birthday he bought her a car. A Mercedes.

For their second anniversary Tom took her to Honolulu. And wound up in jail. A fight in the bar of the Kahala Hilton resulted in a bad story in Time magazine and a worse one in Newsweek. And coverage in every newspaper in the country. Jackpot. Only the story in Time told Kate why the fight had really happened: apparently there had been a rumor that Tom's contract wasn't going to be renewed. He was thirty-two. He had been playing pro ball for ten years.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She looked hurt. "Is it because of the fighting?" But he only shook his head and looked away, as the lines tightened around his mouth.

"Nope. That schmuck who runs the team has this mania about age. He's worse than anyone else in the business. The fights aren't such a big deal. Everyone fights. Rasmussen kicks a.s.s on more people in the streets than he does on the field. Jonas had a drug bust last year. Hubert's a f.a.g. Everyone's got something. But me, it's my age. I'm just too old, Kate. I'm thirty-two, and I still haven't figured out what the h.e.l.l to do with myself after football. Christ, this is all I know." There were tears in his voice and in her eyes.

"Why can't you get yourself traded to another team?"

He looked at her finally and his expression was grim. "Because I'm too old, Kate. This is it. Last stop. And they know it, which is why they ha.s.sle me all the time. They know they've got me."

"So get out. You could do all kinds of other things. You could be a sportscaster, a coach, a manager ..." But he was shaking his head.

"I've been putting out feelers. It all comes back no."

"Okay. So you'll find something else. You don't need a job right away. We could go to school together." She tried to look cheerful. She wanted him to be happy, to share her youth with him, but her efforts only made him smile ruefully.

"Oh, baby, I love you." He folded her into his arms. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered was what they had. And her support did help, for a while. A year, more or less. But after their third anniversary, things seemed to get worse. Tom's contract was under negotiation, and he started getting into fights again. Two in a row, and this time two weeks in jail and a thousand dollar fine. And a five thousand dollar fine imposed by the team. Tom sued for causes of injustice. He lost. He got suspended. And Kate had a miscarriage. She hadn't even known she was pregnant. Tom drove himself nuts. In the hospital, he wept more than she did. He felt as though he had killed their child. Kate was stunned by the sequence of events. The suspension would last for a year, and now she knew what was in store-bar fights, fines, and a lot of time in jail. And yet Tom was so good to her. So sweet, so gentle. He was all she'd ever dreamed of in a man. But she could see only trouble ahead.

"Why don't we spend the year in Europe?"

He had shrugged disinterestedly at her suggestion. He moped for weeks, thinking about the child they had almost had. But what really frightened him was what was happening to his career. When the suspension ended, so would his career. He was too old to make a recovery.

"So we'll start a business." Kate was still so d.a.m.n young, and her optimism only depressed him more. She didn't know what it was like-the terror that he'd be a n.o.body, have to drive a truck, or even work in the mines like his father. He hadn't invested his money well and he couldn't count on that income. What the h.e.l.l was he going to do? Commercials for underwear? Pimp for Kate's modeling career? Have her ghostwrite his memoirs? Hang himself? Only his love for Kate kept him from the bleakest possibilities. The b.i.t.c.h of it was that all he wanted to do was play football. And none of the colleges were considering him as coach. He had earned himself a stinking reputation with all the fighting.

So they went to Europe. They stayed a week. He hated it. They went to Mexico. He was equally miserable there. They stayed home. He hated that too. And he hated himself most of all. He drank and he fought, and reporters bugged him everywhere. But what did he have to lose now? He had already been suspended and they probably wouldn't renew his contract anyway. The only thing he knew for certain was that he wanted a son. And he'd give his son everything.

Just before Christmas, they found out that Kate was pregnant again. This time they were both careful. Everything stopped. Kate's modeling, his drinking, the fighting in bars. They stayed home together. There was nothing but tenderness and peace between them, except for her occasional bouts of temper or tears. But neither of them took that very seriously; it seemed to be part of the pregnancy, and if anything, it amused Tom. He didn't even give a d.a.m.n about the suspension anymore. To h.e.l.l with them. He'd sit it out, and then he'd force them to renew his contract. He'd beg them. All he wanted now was one more knock-out year, so he could put the money away and take good care of his son. The next year he played would be for the baby. For Kate, he bought a mink coat for Christmas.

"Tom, you're crazy! Where'll I wear it?" She modeled it over her nightgown with a huge grin. It was heavenly. But she also wondered what he was trying to hide. What wasn't he facing? What didn't she know?

"You'll wear it to the hospital when you have my son." And he had bought an antique cradle, a four-hundred-dollar English pram, and a sapphire ring for Kate. He was crazy, and madly in love with her, and she was just as in love with him. But deep inside, she was afraid. They spent Christmas alone in San Francisco, and Tom talked about buying a house. Not a big house. Just a nice house in a good area for bringing up a kid. Kate agreed, but wondered if they could really afford a house. As New Year's approached, she had an idea. They'd spend the holiday in Carmel. It would do them both good.

"For New Year's? What do you want to do that for, sweetheart? It's foggy and cold. Pizza, sure. Tacos, okay. Strawberries, what the h.e.l.l. But Carmel in December?" He grinned at her and ran a hand over her still flat belly. But soon ... soon ... the thought made him warm inside. Their baby ... his son.

"I want to go to Carmel because it's the first place we ever went together. Can we?" She looked like a little girl again, although she was going to be twenty-three soon. They had known each other for five years. And of course he gave in to her wish.

"If the lady wants to go to Carmel, then Carmel it is." And Carmel it was. The best suite at the best hotel, and even the weather smiled on them for the three days they were there. Kate's only worry was that Tom bought everything in sight for her and the baby, whenever they wandered past the shops on the main thoroughfare. But they spent a lot of time in their room, drank a great deal of champagne, and the worry faded.

"Did I ever tell you how much I love you, Mr. Harper?"

"I love to hear it, Princess. Oh Kate-" And then he swept her up in a giant hug and held her close. "I'm sorry you've had such a stinking time. I promise I'll shape up now. All that bulls.h.i.+t is over."

"Just so you're happy." She looked so peaceful lying in his arms, and he had never thought her more beautiful.

"I've never been happier." And he finally looked it.

"Then maybe this would be a good time to quit."

"What do you mean?" He looked shocked.

"I mean football, my love. Maybe now, we should just take the money and run. No more ha.s.sles, no more c.r.a.p about your being an 'Old man.' Just us, and the baby."

"And starvation."

"Come on, sweetheart. We're nowhere near starving yet." But she was startled. If he was so concerned about money, why the mink coat, the ring?

"No, but we don't have a real, solid nest egg. Not enough to do right by the baby in five or ten years. Another good year on the team will make all the difference."

"We can invest my modeling money."

"That's yours." His voice sounded cold for a minute. "You wanted that, and you earned it. I'll take care of you and the baby. And that's it. I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

His face had softened then and they had made love in the soft light of dusk. Kate was reminded of their first "honeymoon" in Cleveland. But it was Tom who fell asleep this time, as he lay in Kate's arms, and she watched him. She watched him for hours, thinking, hoping this year would be different, that they'd be decent to him, that the pressures wouldn't get to him as cruelly as they had before. That was all she wanted now. She was growing up.

The day after they went back to San Francisco there was a story in the papers that reported that Tom Harper was "through." It was carried by every major paper in the country. Through. He went crazy when he read it, and a little careful digging brought him the information that the story had been planted by the team ... by the team ... the team ... the Old Man.... He had slammed out of the house without a word to Kate, and she hadn't seen him until six that night. On the news.

He had gone to the home of the owner of the team and threatened his life, then he had gotten into a fight with the team's manager, who had walked in on the scene. Both men had realized that Tom was drunk and wildly irrational, and the owner claimed that Tom had been like a madman, raving about what they couldn't do to his son. In a careful monotone the newscaster explained that Tom Harper didn't have a son; she didn't need to add the conclusion that Harper was obviously crazy. And as Kate watched, her heart rose to her throat. The newscaster went on to explain that the two men had "tried to subdue Harper as he ranted and swung wildly at them both. But unexpectedly, Harper had pulled a gun out of his pocket, taken aim at the owner of the team, and then swung wildly on the manager and fired a shot. Miraculously, he had missed, but before anyone could move, he had then pointed the gun at himself, taken erratic aim, and fired twice. But this time he didn't miss. The manager and team owner were both unharmed, but Harper himself had been hospitalized in critical condition." The newscaster stared somberly from the television for a moment and gravely intoned, "A tragedy for American football."

For the tiniest moment Kate had the insane feeling that if she jumped up and changed the dial, none of it would have happened; all she had to do was switch channels and someone else would say it wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Not Tom ... oh please, not Tom ... please ... she was whimpering softly as she turned around and stared at the room, wondering what to do. They hadn't said what hospital Tom was in. What was she supposed to do? Call the police? The team? The television station? And why hadn't anyone called her? But then she remembered-she had taken the phone off the hook for two hours while she took a nap. Oh G.o.d ... what if ... what if he was already dead? Sobbing, she turned off the television and ran to the phone. Felicia ... Felicia would know ... she would help her. Without thinking, she dialed Felicia's private line at the store. She was still there.

Felicia was stunned by the news and ordered Kate not to move. As she had her a.s.sistant call for a cab on one line, she called the police on another, and got the information. Tom was at San Francisco General. He was still alive-barely, but he was alive. Felicia fled from her office at a run, wondering for a moment why Kate had called her. Surely there was someone else. Her mother, a closer friend, someone? She and Kate were good friends through their work, but they'd never seen much of each other socially. Kate was always too busy with Tom. The hub of that girl's life was the man who lay dying at San Francisco General.

When Felicia arrived at the apartment, Kate was incoherent, but dressed. The cab was still waiting downstairs.

"Come on, put your shoes on."

"My shoes." Kate looked blank. "My shoes?" Tears filled her eyes again and she looked grayish green. Felicia found the closet and a pair of black flats.

"Here." Kate slid her feet into them and left the apartment without handbag or coat, but Felicia slipped her own coat over the girl's shoulders. She didn't need a bag, anyway, because she was in no condition to go anywhere alone. And she didn't have to. Felicia stayed with her day and night for four days, and at the end of that time Tom was still alive. He was in a coma, and the prognosis was poor, but he was alive. He had done a fairly thorough job when he fired, though. He would never walk again, and there was no way to tell yet how extensive the brain damage was.

When Felicia went back to work, Kate carried on like a machine, moving from Tom's bed to the corridor to his bed to the corridor, to cry alone. It was a treadmill which Felicia joined her on when she could, but there was no getting Kate away from the hospital. She was mourning for Tom. She just sat there, staring, or crying, or smoking, but she wasn't really there, and the doctor was afraid to give her anything, in case the medication hurt the baby. Felicia was amazed that she hadn't lost it.

While the newspapers tore Tom apart, Kate tore herself apart. Why hadn't she seen some sign? Why hadn't she known? Could she have helped? Did she take his worries about the future-followed by those spending binges-seriously enough? It was all her fault. It had to be. With the egotism of grief, she tormented herself day after day. Football. It had been his whole life, and now it had killed him. The thought that he'd almost killed two other men was even more terrifying, but she didn't believe he could have done that. Not Tom. But what he had done was bad enough. He had destroyed himself. Poor gentle Tom, driven berserk at the idea of losing that last year of security he wanted for his son. Kate didn't let herself think about the baby though. Only about Tom. It was a nightmare that went on for seven weeks, while Kate paced and cried and was constantly haunted by reporters. And then he came to.

He was weak, broken, and tired, but little by little he grew stronger. He would live now-what was left of him-they were sure of it. He would never walk again, but he could move. He could talk. And he could think. Just like a child. The long weeks of coma had moved him backward in time and left him there, with all his sweetness and tenderness and love intact. He was a little boy again. He remembered nothing of the shooting, but he recognized Kate. He cried in her arms as she stifled silent sobs which shook her tall, terrifyingly thin frame. The only thing he truly understood was that he belonged to her. But he wasn't sure how. Sometimes he thought she was his mother, sometimes his friend. He called her Katie. He would never call her Princess again.... Katie ... that's who she was now.

"You won't leave me?"

Gravely, she shook her head. "No, Tom."

"Never?"

"Never. I love you too much ever to leave you." Her eyes filled with tears again, and she had to force ordinary thoughts into her head. She couldn't let herself really think of him when she said the words, or it would kill her. She couldn't let herself cry. She couldn't do that to him.

"I love you too. And you're pretty." He looked at her with the bright, s.h.i.+ny eyes of a seven-year-old boy, and the wan, tired face of an unshaven, desperately sick man.

After a few weeks, he looked better again, healthy and whole. It was strange to see him, the ersatz Tom. It was as though Tom had left, and sent in his stead a small boy who looked like him. It would be that way forever. But Tom's condition settled the legal aspects of the case permanently. There was no case. Tom Harper was no more.

Three months after what Kate and Felicia called "the accident," Tom was moved to a sanitarium in Carmel. Photographers had lunged at the ambulance as he was being wheeled inside. Tom had wanted to wave at them, and Kate had distracted him while he held tightly to her hand. She was used to them now. Some of the faces were even familiar. For three months they had torn her apart in story after story, exploded flashbulbs in her face, and crawled over the roof of their house to get a better view into the apartment. She had no one to turn to, to defend her. No family, no man. And they knew it. They even ran stories about how her family had disowned her years before because of Tom, and how they thought of her as dead. And she had lain in bed at night, sobbing, praying that the press would go away and leave her alone. But they didn't. Not for one day. Until he was moved to Carmel. And then, magically, it was as though they forgot. As though Tom no longer existed, or Kate, his wife. The two of them had left the magic circle. At last.

When Tom left San Francisco, so did Kate. The house was already waiting. Felicia had seen the ad, and the place turned out to be perfect. The owner lived in the East; his mother had died, leaving him a house he didn't need and didn't want to sell. One day he would retire there, and in the meantime it was Kate's hideaway, nestled in the mountains north of Santa Barbara. It was a three-hour drive from Tom's sanitarium in Carmel, but Felicia a.s.sumed that Kate would be back in San Francisco as soon as things calmed down, right after the baby was born. It was a pretty house, surrounded by fields and trees, with a little brook just down the hill from the house. It would be a good place to recover. It would have been a wonderful place to share with Tom. Kate tried not to think of that as she signed the lease.

After four months she was used to it; it was home. She awoke at dawn when the baby kicked and stirred, hungry for more s.p.a.ce than she had to give him. She lay quietly, feeling him pound inside her, wondering what she would tell him one day. She had thought of changing her name, but decided not to. She was Kate Harper. No one else. She didn't want her father's name anymore. And Tom's baby would be a Harper. Tom didn't understand now about the swollen belly, or maybe he just didn't care. Children didn't, Kate reminded herself, as long as nothing changed for them. Nothing had. She went on visiting him, often at first, and only slightly less frequently as the pregnancy progressed. Nowadays it was twice a week. She was always there. She always would be, as he had been for her. There was no question of it. This was her life now. She had accepted it. She understood, as much as one can. "Always," whatever that meant. "Forever," whatever that was. It meant that each time she saw him, he was the same, always would be. Until one day, when he would quietly die. There was no way to say when. The doctor said he might live to be "considerably older," though not what was normally thought of as old. Or it might all end in a year or less. At some point, Tom's body would simply fade and die. He would just let go. Unconsciously, but he would. And Kate would be there, for all the time in between, loving him. He still looked like Tom, and now and then there was still that magical light in his eyes. It allowed her to pretend that ... but it was a futile game. Now she held him as he once had held her. She didn't even cry anymore.

Kate stood up after her call from Felicia, pushed open the window, and took a deep breath of summer air. She smiled to herself. There were new flowers in the garden. She would take him some. She could still love him. She could always love him. Nothing would change that.

The clock on the bedside table said six twenty-five. She had half an hour to get on the road if she wanted to be there before ten. It was a h.e.l.l of a drive. A h.e.l.l of a way to grow up-but she had. Kate Harper was no longer any kind of child. And the baby stirred in her belly as she slipped off her nightgown and stepped into the shower. She had a long day ahead.

CHAPTER 2.

The dark blue station wagon s.h.i.+fted easily into gear and Kate turned swiftly out of the gravel driveway. The little Mercedes Tom had given her was gone. She didn't need it anymore. This car suited her life now. The hills rolled away toward the horizon; they were still lush even this late in the summer. Here and there she noticed a brown patch, but there had been enough rain through the summer to counteract the heat. And there was a majesty to the scene that always took her breath away as she stood with the mountains at her back and the hills rolling ahead, blanketed with wild flowers and dotted with clumps of trees. She could see livestock grazing in the distance. It was the kind of scene you read about in storybooks, and it would be a beautiful place to bring up her child. He would grow strong here, he would feel free, he would play with the children of ranchers and farmers. He would be healthy and alive, not twisted like her parents, or tormented like Tom. He would run barefoot in the meadow near the house, and sit dangling his toes in the brook. She would make him a swing, would buy him a few animals, maybe one day a horse. It was what Tom would have wanted for his son. And if the child was a girl, she would benefit from the same life. And when she was older, she could go back to the world if she chose, but Kate wasn't going back. Let them forget. They would never touch her again. Not the press, not her parents, no one. This was her home now. She had carved out a place for herself, she had chosen her role. The Widow Harper. It sounded like something in a bad Western, and it made her laugh as she flicked on the radio and reached for a cigarette. It was a rich summer morning, and she felt surprisingly good. Pregnancy wasn't as hard as she had expected it to be, but then, she'd had so many other things on her mind, so many decisions to make, changes to think out. Who had time to worry about heartburn and leg cramps and pains? But still, she had had surprisingly few of those. Maybe it was the easy life she led now in the country. And it was easy, except for the long drives to see Tom. And the way she felt afterward.

The radio throbbed with the soft beat of ballads alternating with rock and roll, and the early morning announcer purred comments and snippets of news. It was summertime. Everyone was on vacation, taking trips, visiting, going to the beach. It was hard to remember that life now. Kate's life consisted of visiting Tom, then going home and writing. Sometimes she went into the nursery and sat in the rocking chair, wondering what it would feel like to hold the baby in her arms. Would it feel strange, or would she instantly love it? Being a mother was hard to imagine, even with the baby packed so tightly inside her. That she understood, but seeing it would be different ... holding it ... she wondered if it would look like Tom. She wanted it to. His name would be Tygue if a boy, and Blaire if a girl. She wanted an unusual name. She had wanted to pick something pretty, something special. Tom would have ... a small sigh escaped as she put out the cigarette and turned the radio up louder. She'd had enough of her own thoughts. She rolled down the window and let the early morning wind play with her hair. She hadn't bothered with the braids today. Tom had always liked her hair loose. And the denim jumper was too tight now, but he wouldn't notice. The seams seemed to beg for release the way her own skin did now. But there was no give left in either her or the dress. She patted her stomach softly with one hand, as she turned onto the freeway and stepped on the gas. The baby was moving again, almost like a puppydog squirming in her lap. It made her smile as she edged the station wagon up to eighty-five. She wanted the drive to go faster. She wanted to see him now.

After another two and a half hours on the freeway, she knew the turnoff was near. All the signals were familiar now. A big green billboard advertising the restaurant another ten miles down the road. A white clapboard house with blue shutters. A sad-looking little motel, and then the turnoff. She automatically slid into the right lane and eased down her speed. Nervously she flicked off the radio, lit another cigarette, and waited at the first crossroads for the traffic to pa.s.s. Another fifteen miles and she'd have been in Carmel. This area was more rustic, but prettier in its own way. It was inland from Carmel, but you could see the gulls overhead, endlessly looking for food.

Kate stepped on the gas again, and turned onto the first narrow road on her right. It led her onto another smaller road, more like a lane, overgrown with bushes and small trees. Here and there she could see berries ripe on the bushes, and she longed to get out of the car and pick some; she had done that as a child. But she didn't have time, she had to get there. She looked at her watch. It was already nine-thirty. He would be sitting outside now, or maybe just lying in his hammock, thinking. He did that a lot. She wondered what he thought. He never said. He just laughed when she asked, and sometimes he would look like Tom again, As if he still had things to think about. It was strange to see him that way, as though he were teasing, as though any minute he would stop the game. It made her love him even more; there was such sunlight in his eyes, such joy in his face. He was a beautiful boy.

The main building looked like any large well-kept house. It was painted a crisp white with freshly tended yellow trim, there were flower boxes at almost all the windows, and beautiful flowers planted at the edge of the lawns. A narrow, winding walk led to the front door of the main house, which bore a small bra.s.s plaque, carefully engraved. Mead Home. Only two words. They didn't need to say more; anyone who came there knew what the place was. There were several smaller houses visible nearby, all painted in the same yellow and white, and farther from the main cl.u.s.ter were a dozen small, cozy-looking yellow cottages, surrounded by flowers and adorned with white trim. The cottages were the more exclusive accommodations. Some were fitted for two residents, others for only one. And each cottage had its own resident attendant to care for his or her charge. Tom lived in one of the cottages, with a quiet older man in attendance-Mr. Erhard, who discreetly disappeared when Kate visited. The enormous insurance Tom had had as a member of the team miraculously covered his stay at Mead, and would continue to do so for ten or twelve years. After that, Kate was going to have to make other arrangements, but by then ... who knew ... the doctors said he could go on for years the way he was.

The gra.s.s felt damp on her sandal-clad feet as she walked toward Tom's cottage. She didn't have to check in at the main house anymore. The residents were carefully protected, but she was familiar now. They saw her arrive from the ever-watchful windows of the main house, and she could come and go as she pleased. She simply arrived and went to find Tom. He was easy enough to find. But today when she reached the cottage, he wasn't there.

"Tom?" There was no answer to her knock. "Mr. Erhard?" The attendant seemed to be gone too. Gingerly, she opened the door and looked around. The room was neatly kept and as bright and pretty as the rest of the facilities. It was why she had chosen Mead Home for Tom. She had been to see a number of places like it within driving distance of San Francisco, and all of them had looked bleak, full of despair. Mead had an aura of hope and suns.h.i.+ne about it. It was a place that time no longer touched, the way it no longer touched Tom. It was safe, tucked away. And it looked more like a school than a sanatorium; Kate always expected to hear children singing, or see them running off to play baseball.

"Tom?" She wondered where he had gone, as she sank into a chair for a minute to catch her breath. She was breathless today, more than she had been. The baby was crowding her increasingly. And she had driven the three hours straight through without stopping, despite her doctor's orders. But stopping took too much time. She always figured she could get the kinks out when she got to Mead. She stretched her legs for a minute, enjoying the comfortable rocking chair. It was upholstered in a bright print with little red flowers, and the quilts on the two beds matched the chair. The curtains were airy white dotted Swiss, and there was a small jar crammed full of bright yellow flowers on the table near the window. She knew Tom had picked them. Some of his drawings were tacked to the walls, and his hand still had the maturity his head no longer had. There were delicate watercolors of flowers and birds. She had never known that he could draw until he had come to Mead. He had never done anything like it before. Only football. Now he didn't even remember he had played. It was as though he had had to go all the way back to childhood to get rid of it. But at last he had.

Actually this was the perfect cottage for anyone, sick or well, adult or child, and Kate liked knowing he was happy there. And he could get around easily in his wheelchair. Outside there was a hammock Mr. Erhard helped him into when Tom was content just to lie and watch the birds. Sometimes he even let him lie there for a while at night, covered with blankets, looking up at the stars. Mr. Erhard was good to Tom. He had been one of his fans for years, and he was pleased with the special a.s.signment when Tom arrived at Mead.

There was a rustle outside as Kate pushed herself out of the chair, and then she heard Mr. Erhard's rich baritone, telling Tom a story. There was a pause for a moment, when he must have noticed the door to the cottage was slightly ajar. She heard his step on the narrow flagstone path, and in a moment the white mane of her husband's attendant was visible in the doorway.

"Yes?" It was a stern sound, and he looked like a man who brooked neither nonsense nor intrusions. But his face softened instantly when he saw Kate. "Well, h.e.l.lo there. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Fat." They both laughed. "How's our friend?"

Mr. Erhard nodded, with a satisfied look. "Doing fine. He did a whole batch of new drawings yesterday, and we picked some flowers this morning. He'll tell you all about-"

"Hey! Andy!" It was Tom's voice from outside. The chair was stuck in the gra.s.s. "Hey!"

"Coming, son." Erhard was quick to leave the cottage and Kate was right behind him. It was crazy, that smile bursting into her eyes and onto her lips. Why did she still feel like this? As though he were still the old Tom, as though ... she always felt the same thrill, the same excitement, the same pleasure in just looking at him, touching him, holding him, just knowing he was all right and still hers.

"Katie!" It was a burst of delight as Tom saw her coming toward him. His eyes danced, and his smile went on forever as he reached out his arms.

"Hi, sweetheart. How you be today?"

"Terrific! Wait till you see what we found!"

Mr. Erhard's wise old eyes twinkled as he rolled Tom gently toward the cottage and then inside. He was already gone when Kate turned around.

"Your new drawings are so pretty, love." But she wasn't looking at the drawings, she was looking at him. He looked brown and strong and happy. The Tom Sawyer of Mead Home. And then he wheeled right up to her and she quickly bent down and took him in her arms. It was a good, clean, warm hug. That was all he understood now, but it carried with it the strength of everything she felt for him.

"You look pretty, Katie." He looked almost embarra.s.sed as he pulled away, and then wheeled his chair quickly to the table. He picked up the jar with the yellow flowers and then wheeled quickly back. "I picked these for you." Tears sprang to her eyes as she smiled at him and took the jar. But they were happy pregnant tears, not tears of grief.

"They're beautiful." She wanted to hug him again, but she knew she had to wait. It would make him uncomfortable if she overdid it. He would come to her in his own time. "Want to go for a walk?"

"Okay."

She tossed her handbag aside and started to push his chair. It was heavier than she had realized, or maybe she was just exceptionally tired. The baby seemed to weigh a thousand pounds today. But Tom helped her as they got onto the walk. He guided the wheels with his hands, and they quickly found one of the smoother walks.

"Want to sit by the lake?" He looked back at her and nodded happily, and then he started whistling to himself.

The lake was tiny but pretty, like everything at Mead. Kate had brought him a model sailboat to use on the water, and he went there often. Mr. Erhard said it was one of his favorite things to do. But they had left it at the cottage. Gently, she turned the chair around, and sat down heavily on the gra.s.s.

"So, what've you been up to all week?"

"How come you didn't come to see me this week?"

"Because I was too busy being fat." There was still this foolish compulsion to talk to him about it, as though she could jog his memory, as though he would understand that the baby was his, or even that there was a baby at all.