A Perfect Love (21 page)

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.”

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

T
he 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.

He put his hand on the door handle. She was hoping to surprise him . . . why not surprise her?

Gripping the towel firmly in his right hand, he swung the door open . . . and dropped his jaw.

Gone were the bold navy and green plaid curtains at the window. Gone was his favorite bedspread . . . and his comfortable bed. The leather footstool had vanished, and so had the navy blue pillows he liked to lean on while he read the sports section.

He felt his brows lower. A pair of workers in overalls nodded at him, but his eyes sought and found Barbara. His wife was cowering beside his mother-in-law, whose arms were overflowing with pink ruffles.

“Birthday surprise,” Cleta sang out, dropping the pile of pink froufrou on the floor. She picked up the empty curtain rods. “New furniture, drapes, and bed ensemble. Aren't you the lucky birthday boy!”

“Barbara,” Russell called, his voice hoarse with frustration.

“Honey, you're not decent.” She rushed to him, put her arms around his waist and pushed him back into the bathroom. When they were out of Cleta's hearing, she ran her hands up his bare arms. “Honey, I know pink's not your color. But Mom wanted to do this for us, OK? And since this might be the last of your birthdays we'll spend here, just humor her, please?”

Russell exhaled slowly, then looked down into Barbara's beautiful eyes. When she looked at him like that, he couldn't deny her anything.

“OK,” he said finally. “I'll put up with it—for a while. But if any one of you Lansdowns tells anyone in town that I'm sleeping in a pink bedroom, I'm moving out on the next ferry.”

Chapter Ten

O
n Saturday morning, a cold fog moved over the island. It roiled at the windows, softly insistent, and Vernie waded through a soup of the stuff as she crossed the street and headed to the bed-and-breakfast.

“Cleeeeta.” Vernie called from the foyer. “I found that blueberry cobbler recipe you've been wanting!”

“In the kitchen.”

Vernie followed Cleta's voice. As soon as she entered the kitchen she knew something was wrong. Cleta, Floyd, Barbara, and Russell all sat at the table, a virtually untouched plate of pancakes and bacon on the lazy Susan.