One More Knight

Chapter 8

August 4, 1977

Dear Diary,

I don’t know whether to be mad at Colin, or kiss him. He did something that made me so embarrassed I could have just died, but then it all turned out okay, so I guess it was really pretty sweet. What he did was, he told me he was having this pool party at his house, and that it was just going to be Kelly Grace and Bobby and some others, nothing big, and we’d just barbecue and listen to music and hang out. So I went over, and guess who was there? Richie. I mean, just Richie, and nobody else. Talk about embarrassing! God, it was so awkward. There we were, just the two of us, with our bathing suits and everything, and we couldn’t even look each other in the eye! But like I said, it all turned out okay. We started talking, finally-I mean, what else could we do, right?-and we both said we were sorry, and he asked me if I wanted to go with him to see Saturday Night Fever this weekend. Of course I said yes! Even though I’ve seen it three times already.

Of course I didn’t tell Richie about what happened between Colin and me. I’m never going to tell anyone about that, ever, ever. And I don’t think I will have sex with him, either.

Thought for the Day: From now on, I am going to wait until I am truly in love. Or at least married.

Troy had taken Bubba for a ramble up the street and was just working his way back toward the car when he heard the first siren. The first thought he had was that the noise was going to set poor ol’ Bubba off, and every other dog in the neighborhood along with him.

Then the fire-department paramedics came roaring past him, with an ambulance right behind them, and he stood stock-still and watched them both turn into the same driveway he’d just come out of. And God forgive him, what he thought then was, Lord help us, she’s killed somebody!

Even on further reflection it didn’t seem all that far-fetched a notion, considering the jagged edge the woman had been walking for as long as he’d known her. Which, come to think of it, was less than twenty-four hours. After all, what did he really know about this Charly Phelps, anyway?

Okay, for one thing, that she was the friend of somebody whose judgment and good sense he trusted. Other than that, just that she was a California lawyer who’d spent an unhappy childhood in a small Southern town, liked bourbon and french fries, pretended not to like dogs and had a soft, mushy heart she didn’t want anybody to know about. Oh, yeah, and she was one hell of a lover. Passionate. Edgy. Angry…

He took off at a jog-trot, Bubba loping happily along beside him with his tongue hanging out. Half a block later Troy broke into a dead run.

The two meat wagons were parked in the semicircular driveway in front of the big brick house with the white columns, engines idling, lights flashing, ready to roll. No one was in sight. Troy got Bubba put up in the Cherokee and was taking the steps two at a time when the front door burst open and a paramedic came backing out onto the porch, holding an IV bottle high in one hand. After him came the stretcher, or rolling gurney, or whatever they called it, surrounded by a whole bunch of EMTs, all of them in a hurry but businesslike about it. Troy took that as a good sign, meaning whoever was on the stretcher was alive and probably stable, at least for the moment. And he couldn’t see any signs of blood, which was more reassuring to him than he liked to admit.

He didn’t start to breathe evenly, though, until he saw Charly come through the door, right behind the stretcher. She had one hand clamped across her mouth, and what he could see of her face above it was bone white. There was another woman with her-a tall, thin black woman with an Egyptian look about her-and the two were sort of holding on to each other, so it was hard to tell who was supporting whom. He got out of the way and let the stretcher go by, then lightly touched Charly’s arm. Her eyes leaped to his in startled recognition, and he realized that until that moment she hadn’t even been aware of his presence, so focused was she on the stretcher and its occupant.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked in a tense undertone.

“It’s my dad.” She gulped air, looking like someone woken up from a bad dream. “I think he’s had a heart attack.”

“Oh, Lord.” Troy was thinking about his own father’s two heart attacks. Especially the second, the one that had killed him, when Troy was off somewhere in the service, so he never got a chance to say goodbye. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He gonna be okay?”

The black woman suddenly squeezed Charly’s elbow, muttered, “I’m goin’ with him,” and pushed past her and took off down the steps.

Charly frowned distractedly, looking as if she wanted to follow. “I don’t know. I have to…get to the hospital.”

“Wait-hang on a minute. I’ll take you.”

Troy reached back and pulled the front door closed, since it didn’t seem likely anybody else was going to think to do it, and followed the crowd down the steps, digging in his pockets for his keys on the way. The fire-department truck was already pulling out, and the ambulance’s engine was revving. Someone gave the black woman a hand up into the back and slammed the doors after her, and it rolled into the street, siren waiting and lights flashing.

Charly made it to the Cherokee before Troy did, running clip-clop on the uneven brick paving in her high-heeled shoes. He went straight to the driver’s seat and climbed in, fired up the engine and hauled the door shut. Then he paused with one hand on the gearshift and looked over at her. “You know where the hospital is, or shall I give chase?”

“I know where it is,” she said tensely, poised on the edge of the seat like a runner in starting blocks.

“That’s good,” Troy said in a quieter and more deliberate voice than he usually used. “In that case what I want you to do is, I want you to take a great big deep breath and ease on back in that seat and relax a minute.” She threw him a burning look, riled and rebellious. He looked right back at her. “I mean it. We’re not goin’ anywhere until you do.”

She exhaled in an angry hiss and muttered something under her breath-probably swearing, which he’d noticed she had a tendency to fall back on in times of stress. The part he could make out clearly was the rough equivalent of “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He folded his arms across his chest in a way he’d seen his mama do a time or two, and when he spoke it was in the quiet voice he’d heard her use to quell tantrums. “Who I am is the friend who’s drivin’ you to the hospital to see about your daddy, for starters. Also the friend who doesn’t want to see you wind up in the bed right next to him.” He paused to let that sink in. “Now, the man’s in good hands, and there’s not gonna be anything you can do for a while anyway. Nobody’s even gonna talk to you until they’ve got him all hooked up and stabilized. You understand?”

She fought it, fought him. Then she let out another breath, this one slow and weary, and sank back, closing her eyes. “You say that as if you know.”

“Oh, yeah. I was in high school when my dad had his first heart attack. I don’t imagine the drill’s changed all that much since then.”

“His first one?”

“My daddy was a stubborn man,” he said softly. “I was in the service when he had the second one. By the time I got there, it was too late.”

“Oh, God.” She didn’t open her eyes. He could see her throat move with her swallows.

“You feel like tellin’ me what happened?” he asked, making it gentle but matter-of-fact, knowing how close she was to breaking at that moment and understanding how much she wanted not to.

For a few seconds she didn’t say anything, and he wondered if she would. But then her lips tightened in a spasm of pain, and she whispered, “We were arguing. I was shouting at him. And he just…collapsed. I should have known something was wrong. I should have seen it coming. But I was just…so angry.”

“Hey,” said Troy, “this wasn’t your fault.”

She shook her head, a quick, violent denial. “I knew he didn’t look good. His color was bad. I knew it, and I kept yelling at him anyway. I did this to him.”

Troy snorted. “Woman, you do have a high opinion of your capabilities.” He reached over and put the truck in gear, while she gaped at him and tried to decide whether to take offense or not. “Fact is, people don’t get heart attacks from arguing-they get ’em because their arteries are plugged up with junk, due to bad genes or bad living, take your pick. If your dad hadn’t had a heart attack today, he was probably gonna have it later on, most likely when you weren’t even around. Look at it this way-at least you’re here. No matter what happens. You understand? That’s more’n I got.”

She didn’t reply. He drove to the square in a humming silence, wondering why he felt as if they’d just had a quarrel. Shoot, they hadn’t known each other long enough to be quarreling.

But if that was so, then why was it he felt…not angry with her exactly, but…hurt, maybe? Certainly disappointed with her, mistreated in some indefinable way. Which was so unlike him, he kept racking his brain to come up with a reason why he felt so. What was it she’d said or done?

“Turn right at the light,” Charly mumbled, and lapsed once more into brooding silence.

And that was when it came to him. That it wasn’t what she’d said or done, but what she hadn’t. Here he’d driven damn near two hundred miles to bail the woman out of jail, spent the whole night either making love to her or sleeping with her snuggled up in his arms, spent the entire morning helping her iron out her screwed-up affairs and now he was driving her to the hospital and trying his best to comfort her after her dad’s heart attack-and he still didn’t have a clue as to what in the hell this was all about! After all that, after all he’d been through with her and everything he’d done for her-not that he was keeping score-it really was starting to bug him that she still apparently didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was going on inside her.

Dammit, it just wasn’t in him to pry. Growing up in a household with close to a dozen people in it counting grandparents and the occasional extra, not to mention a career in the military and a lot of years living in barracks housing, had given him a healthy respect for privacy. He believed in offering a helping hand if it was needed and asked for, but beyond that, he believed in staying out of other people’s business and minding his own.

And in a way that was the problem. Because after the events of the past eighteen hours or so, he’d begun to feel kind of like she was his business. Like he had a vested interest in her, or something. Put another way…

Hell’s bells, man, say it plainly! You care about her.

Okay, so he did. He cared about her. Which was what made it so damn hard, not knowing what was making her hurt so bad.

Mirabella put down the phone and turned to find that the man she adored was right there, eyes steady and soft with concern, ready to fold her into his arms. She still wasn’t used to the miracle of that, of having someone love her so much, read her so clearly and understand her so well, so she had to be coaxed a little bit. Which Jimmy Joe was more than up to.

“Problems?” he asked, gently massaging her neck until her muscles were ready to relax and let her head settle into its customary nest below his chin.

She tried to disguise a sniffle. “That was Charly. Her dad just had a heart attack.”

“Oh, Lord. How bad is it?”

“He’s alive, but at this point they don’t know much more than that.”

“Well,” said Jimmy Joe, “that’s good. That’s a good sign. Once they get ‘em to the hospital, they usually manage to pull ’em through.”

Mirabella nodded, and then they were both quiet, thinking of Mirabella’s dad, who had survived his recent heart attack, undergone multiple-bypass surgery and was currently doing fine, and of Jimmy Joe’s dad, who hadn’t done any of those things.

“Were Charly and her dad close?” Jimmy Joe asked after a while.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I told you, remember? She ran away from home when she was very young.”

He held her tighter. “Sometimes that makes it worse.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mirabella muffled another sniffle against his chest. After a moment she took a breath and said casually, “Troy’s at the hospital with her.”

“Oh, yeah?” She could feel his smile against her hair, and tilted her head back so she could give him a scolding glare.

“I know what you’re thinking. And you can stop thinking it, because I’m telling you, I know Charly, and it doesn’t mean a thing. So Troy’s at the hospital. Big deal. He’s your brother. If he’s anything like you, where else would he be?”

“You got me there,” murmured Jimmy Joe, rocking her gently with his chuckle.

Mollified, Mirabella relaxed against him once more. But her mind was anything but relaxed. It was busy, as usual, chewing over this latest development, weighing options, making plans. Presently she drew herself up and declared, “We’ll have to postpone the wedding.”

“Well, now,” said Jimmy Joe cautiously, “let’s not get carried away. You really think that’s what she’d want? With your sisters comin’ all the way from California, and your mom and dad up from Pensacola and all?”

“I know,” Mirabella wailed. “But I don’t see how we can get married without the maid of honor and the best man, do you? Oh, God, now I don’t know what to do.” With that almost unprecedented admission came a sigh of vexation. Although she’d gotten considerably better about rolling with life’s punches since meeting Jimmy Joe, Mirabella still didn’t adjust all that well to glitches in her carefully laid plans.

Which, of course, Jimmy Joe was well aware of. So he just chuckled and wrapped her up once more in his arms and said, “Tell you what-it’s early yet. Instead of goin’ off half-cocked, why don’t we just wait a bit and see what happens?”

Charly walked slowly down the hospital corridor, following signs and arrows that would lead her back to the CICU waiting room. She was feeling numb, maybe a little giddy, and thinking about ironies. Thinking that the corridors, signs and arrows all looked familiar to her, like some kind of Twilight Zone episode where no matter what she did, she kept ending up back in the same place.

Except that this wasn’t a TV fantasy or a nightmare she could expect to wake up from eventually. This was real. The fact was, twenty years ago she had walked down these same corridors after giving birth to a son. She’d walked out the front door that day and stepped onto a Greyhound bus and never looked back. Now here she was twenty years later, back where she’d started from, and the man she’d tried so hard to run away from all those years was the one who’d brought her here. How was this possible? It was as if she’d spent her whole life believing she was really getting someplace, only to find that all the time she’d been wandering in a circle.

Circle of life. Birth…to death.

“You get a hold of her?” Troy was at her side, holding a foam cup full of coffee in one hand and a large soft drink cup with water in it in the other.

She nodded, and was conscious of an enormous sense of relief as she took the coffee he held out to her, as if she’d just been given a pillow to lean back on. “They’d just gotten back from lunch, and were about to head out to do some more shopping.” She smiled thinly. “I was lucky to catch them-Bella’s a world-class shopper.”

She gestured toward the cup of water he still held in his hand. “That for Bubba?”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna go see if I can find a better place to park. I tied him to the door handle so he can lie underneath the truck for shade, but I think I saw a place just down the hill where I can pull in close to some trees. Besides-” his grin flashed briefly “-it’s farther away from here in case he decides to cut loose and start howlin’.” He touched her arm and lowered his voice. “You gonna be okay here?” His eyes were dark and solicitous.

He has such incredible eyes.

The impropriety of the thought startled her. She nodded, her throat tightening with guilt, and said, “Sure.”

“Okay, then. Be right back.”

He turned, almost bumping into Dobrina, who was coming from the nurses’ station. “Any news?” Charly asked without much hope as she and Troy moved from the doorway of the waiting room to let her pass.

Dobrina shook her head while giving Troy a measuring look. Then she drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable, and thrust out her hand. “I’m Dobrina,” she announced before Charly had a chance to make the introductions. “And you’d be…?”

Charly couldn’t help but be amused by the way Troy practically snapped to attention. Dobrina had that effect on people. “Troy Starr, ma’am. Charly’s friend.”

“The one she called on to get her out of jail.”

Thus relegated to the position of mannerless child, Charly rolled her eyes and threw up her hands, while Troy said humbly, “Yes, ma’am.”

Dobrina was giving him what Charly had always called her supermom look-the one she’d swear could see straight through a person, or at least down to what was deep inside. Apparently in Troy’s case she approved of what she saw, although he probably wouldn’t have guessed that from her expression, which reminded Charly of an old-fashioned schoolteacher about to smack somebody with her ruler. But Charly had always been able to tell when Aunt Dobie was melting-something about the way her eyes turned a soft gold, with fine little wrinkles underneath.

A warm wave of memory soaked through the numbness inside her to settle around her heart, and she had to look away.

“Humph,” said Dobrina, still looking at Troy down the length of her nose as if he were a truant schoolboy and the apple he was offering her had a worm in it. “Where you from?”

“I’m from Georgia, ma’am. U.S. Navy, recently retired.”

“Georgia.” She gave a dubious sniff. “Retired, you say? Look pretty young to be retired, to me. What you plannin’ to do with the rest of your life?”

Troy rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, ma’am, I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

“Well, you best get to figuring.” Dobrina leaned forward and tapped him on the chest. “You got to do something worthwhile with your life.”

Troy gave Charly a look of appeal. She knew how he felt, but could only offer him a shrug of sympathy. When it came to Aunt Dobie, it was every man, woman or child for him- or herself.

A moment later, though, inspiration came to his rescue. Holding up the cup full of water, he said, “Yes, ma‘am. Uh, would you excuse me? Gotta go tend to my dog. Nice meetin’ you.” And he fled, visibly perspiring.

“Seems like a nice young man,” said Dobrina with a judicious sniff, looking after him.

“A regular Boy Scout,” Charly murmured, frowning as she watched Troy’s classically masculine, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped form turn a corner far down the corridor and disappear from view, her thoughts so far removed from anything remotely Boy Scout-ish she considered it a wonder Dobrina’s God didn’t smite her on the spot.

She was experiencing two very different but equally perplexing emotions. First there was the old flip-flop feeling in her chest, the unmistakable symptom of sexual attraction, and the stomach-churning guilt that went along with that. Her father had just had a heart attack, for God’s sake-this was no time to be falling wildly, head over heels in lust!

But it was the second feeling she found most worrisome, even frightening. Certainly the most difficult to understand. For twenty years she’d existed, rising and falling, succeeding and failing, pretty much on her own resources, dependent on no one. So why was it only now she should feel this sense of weakness, disorientation and fear, as if she were blind and her trusted guide dog had just walked off and left her in the middle of a catwalk with no handrails?

Realizing that Dobrina was giving her one of her looks, she shrugged and added, “I haven’t known him very long.” And she thought, My God, what an understatement. I only met him yesterday. How can that be?

“Well, we may just as well sit,” Dobrina said abruptly, giving Charly’s elbow a squeeze as she marched past her into the waiting room.

Charly managed a nod but stayed where she was for the moment. She was feeling too shaky and jangled to sit. She sipped bitter, lukewarm coffee and listened to the distant beeping of monitors, the muted murmur of voices, the ringing of telephones, and tried to make sense of the chaos into which her life had so unexpectedly descended.

It seemed impossible. When she’d woken up in the dark of yesterday morning she’d been a successful Los Angeles attorney, about to fly to Georgia to participate in her best friend’s wedding. How could things have gone so wrong so quickly?

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said softly. “I never meant for this to happen.” Then she looked over at Dobrina, and saw that the woman’s eyes were closed and her hands were clasped together on top of the big black handbag that was resting on her knees. She was rocking herself slightly and her lips were moving. It was with a small jolt of shame that Charly realized she must be praying.

But after only a moment Dobrina’s eyes opened and she said gently, “Of course you didn’t, child.”

Charly moved slowly toward her, arms crisscrossing her waist, still clutching the cup of cold coffee as if it were a talisman protecting her against harm. “I went back for my purse.” Her teeth were chattering. She clamped them together and gave a painful laugh. “After all that, you know what? I forgot it again.”

Dobrina was sitting ramrod straight, staring straight ahead at nothing. Her head dipped twice and she said in a soft, faraway voice, as if she were talking to herself, “I know…I know. I’m sorry for doing that. This is my fault…my fault. I should never have interfered.”

Charly waged a silent war with her own anger and lost. She went to sit in the chair next to Dobrina, reached over and put her hand over the other woman’s clasped hands and gave them a squeeze.

“You know what?” she said tightly. “It’s not either one of our faults. It’s his fault.” She jerked her head toward the waiting-room door.

Dobrina came to herself with a little gasp, pulled a hand free and gave Charly’s a slap. “Don’t you go sayin’ that, now. I won’t have you to talk that way. I won’t.”

“Oh, God.” Charly put her head back and closed her eyes. After a moment she said tiredly, “You always do that-make excuses for him. Take his side…protect him. Why is that? You, of all people. You know what he’s like.”

“Oh, I expect I know him better than anybody does.” Charly heard the sigh of an exhalation, then unexpectedly a chuckle. “I know he’s a stubborn old fool.”

“And yet you’ve stayed with him all these years.”

For a moment there was silence. Then in a soft, musing tone that made her sound like someone else, someone much younger, Dobrina said, “I almost left him once.”

“Really?” Charly sat up and opened her eyes. “When was that?”

“Oh, yes-yes, I did.” Dobrina was nodding, still looking straight ahead, looking into the past now. “Oh, that was when you left, child. But then he brought the boy home. He needed me then. So what could I do? I stayed.”

He brought the boy home. Charly felt as if she’d been struck in the chest. “The boy-” she had to stop for air “-you mean, my son. He brought…him home? You mean…you raised my son? You did?”

“I did.” Dobrina dipped her head, then drew herself up proudly. “I raised him, just like I raised you.” She reached for Charly’s ice-cold hand and gripped it hard. “He’s a good boy-a good boy.”

Charly’s face felt like a mask. She fought desperately to keep the mask intact-she had to. Behind it there was complete devastation. “Tell me about him,” she whispered. “Please. Tell me, where is he? What is he doing?”

“Why, he’s just finishin’ up his sophomore year at Ol’ Miss,” said Dobrina, beaming, as eager to share her child’s accomplishments as any proud parent. “Premed-oh, he’s so bright, that boy. He’s aimin’ to be a doctor, you know.”

Charly’s laugh was high and musical, one note away from a sob. “His father always wanted to be a doctor.”

“He should be home now,” Dobrina went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “They just finished with finals last week. But he wanted to go off with some friends of his, you know, went down to New Orleans to celebrate.” Suddenly she was rocking herself again, her eyes looking lost and her voice gone rusty. “I called and left word for him to come right home.”

Charly couldn’t breathe. She pressed a hand against the ache in her heart and whispered, “He’s coming here?”

Dobrina didn’t seem to hear her. She was mumbling, “Oh, sweet Jesus, I don’t know what he’s gonna do when he hears. I just don’t know…”

“He and my father-” The words came out much sharper than Charly intended. She swallowed hard and finished in a mumble, “Are they…close?”

Dobrina’s face lit up. “Oh my, yes. He’s the apple of your daddy’s eye, that boy. Oh, yes, they’re close. Real close. Just like a father and son.”

Father and son. But what about me? I was his daughter! She clutched at another breath, pulling it into herself like a security blanket, and asked with desperate brightness, “What’s his name?” She’d named him Colin Stewart, after his father. “Did you…did he keep…?”

Dobrina was nodding. “It’s Colin on his birth certificate, but he’s called Cutter. Cutter Phelps.” Of course, Dobrina pronounced it the Alabama way: Cuddah.

“Cutter…” Charly repeated it in a daze. She was once more, in spite of all her efforts, on the verge of tears. “I just wanted to see him,” she whispered, “That’s all-not even to let him know it was me, you know? Just…see him. I told him-my father-I was going to no matter what he said. That’s what upset him so badly. Was it so much to ask? Does he hate me that much?”

“Oh, child,” Dobrina said, her own voice cracking. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes, he does!” Charly knew she sounded like a hurt little girl and was powerless to stop herself. “He’s never forgiven me for what happened. I don’t think he ever will.”

Dobrina slowly rose to her feet, clutching her pocketbook. Charly could see now that she was trembling.

“Look,” she said in a rush, her own voice shaking, “I know it was all my fault-getting pregnant, and…what happened to Colin. I know I shamed him. But what happened to Colin…he was my friend, dammit! I know he was a Stewart, but I lost someone I loved But he’s never forgiven me, even after all these years. I thought-”

Dobrina whirled on her then, suddenly and magnificently angry. “Oh, you stubborn, stubborn child. You’re just as bad as he is! Can’t see the truth, even when it’s right in front of your face.” Charly’s mouth opened, ready with her defense, but the older woman threw out a hand and silenced her with a gesture. “It’s not your havin’ a baby or that poor boy’s death your father can’t forgive you for-it nevah was. Don’t you know that? It’s your leavin’ he can’t get over. The fact that you left, and you nevah came back. Like to killed him when you did that. I thought it would. If it hadn’t a’ been for the boy…”

Charly rose slowly, shaken to her core. “Why did he do it, Aunt Dobie?” she asked in a breaking child’s voice. “Why did he bring him back? He was so adamant about my giving up my baby. And then, after it’s too late, he goes and does…what he did? I don’t understand.”

Dobrina gazed at her for a long moment, her eyes darkening slowly to the blackness of inexpressible sorrow. “Don’t you see, child? He was hopin’ and prayin’ it wasn’t too late. All he evah wanted was what was best for you. You were his little girl, his only child, and all he could see was how havin’ that baby was goin’ to ruin your future. He thought he was doin’ the best thing. Then, after the boy was born, and you were gone, he saw what he’d done was wrong. He went and got the boy and brought him home, and then he waited…”

Charly could barely bring herself to whisper it. “Waited?”

Tears glistened on Dobrina’s proud, tragic face. “For you, child. He waited, all those years, for you to come home.”