Cupid’s Confederates

Chapter 12

“…and the continuous use of a specific residual herbicide has traditionally resulted in poor weed control in the orchard…”

The speaker droned on. Zach crossed one ankle over his other knee, and used his thigh as a table for his pad of paper. His pen rushed across the unlined page in flat, bold strokes.

“So in selecting herbicides for orchard weed control, let us first examine diuron, simazine, and terbacil…”

Half an hour later, the farmers were shifting in their chairs. Most of them wanted the information as much as Zach did, but hadn’t anticipated paying such a high price to get it-suffering through a monotone delivery so hypnotizing that the audience was blinking continuously in an effort to stay awake.

The meeting finally ended at nine; Zach bolted impatiently from his chair and stalked out of the stale air of the classroom. Pickup doors slammed all around him as he buttoned his alpaca jacket against the stiff November wind. A few other growers stopped to wave or exchange a word or two before he slammed the door of the pickup and started the engine.

At least half of the other farmers were accompanied by their wives, most of whom usually stayed in the back of the room near the coffee machine and shared gossip at these agricultural meetings. Bett usually came, but not to drink coffee. If she’d been there this time he could well imagine her hand waving in the air, the men’s affectionate and sometimes amused glances, her very polite demand to know the exact difference in chemical composition between diuron and simazine, what studies had been done on the effects of those chemicals on the environment, and in what conceivable way they might react with other chemicals used in an orchard throughout the year. Last year the agronomist from the local university had not been prepared for such a cross-examination. This year the speaker had occasionally leveled Zach a wary glance, as if waiting to be challenged.

Zach had not been in a challenging mood. Cold air nipped at his cheeks and nose; he turned the dial on for the heater and pulled out of the brightly lit parking lot onto the lonely black strip of road. Snow was in the air. Thanksgiving was a week away, and the last autumn leaves were whirling down in the bitingly cold night. He could have owned the road; no one else was on it.

Fall had always been his favorite time of year. Work wasn’t over-work was never really over on a farm-but the pressure was off; there was the satisfaction of a harvest completed and all the luxury of sudden leisure time. When you walked outside, the crisp autumn air burned in your lungs and made you feel alive…

Often in the fall, he and Bett bundled up and walked the farm on a cold night. Just as often, he associated November nights with a hot fire and cider and Bett curled up next to him in silence, her eyes half closed. In the late afternoon, they would gather chestnuts sometimes. And there was the nuisance job of raking leaves-he had half a dozen pictures stored in his head, of Bett making huge efficient piles of crackling leaves; of Bett, laughing, flat on her back, waving her hands back and forth while he patiently explained that one made angels in the snow, not leaves; then of himself on top of her, burying both of them, most methodically…

There had been none of that kind of thing this year. Zach turned down another lonely side road.

This fall had been an exercise in continuous chaos. The household had ridden the merry-go-round of Elizabeth’s new social schedule. Popularity had mysteriously sneaked up on his mother-in-law. Zach had dragged home Jim Barker from the bank; Bett had discovered the man who owned the local dress shop, a widower named Fred Case. Then there’d been Horace, Graham, Bob-who made the unfortunate mistake of putting the moves on Liz-Joe Greeley, and the Michaels man. There was someone else; she was often gone at lunch, but he’d forgotten the name. Even the neighbors had become involved in the conspiracy. Everyone knew a widower, a bachelor, a divorced man; Susan Lee had a brother…

Bett and Zach had made lists, checked references, vetted the contenders. Elizabeth did not call the outings dates, because she was too old to date, she said. These were engagements, duly noted on an engagement calendar. Each was a complicated project, involving hairdos, clothes, anxiety, anticipation, lengthy debates over shoes and purses, a pre-hash of worry, a post-hash of exactly what had transpired over the evening.

Elizabeth was under the impression that they always invited people to dinner three or four times a week during the fall. Zach had been coerced into donning a suit and going out at least every other weekend; Liz said four at a table made conversation easier. Company came continuously to the house. No crumb dared fall on a coffee table; one never knew who was going to come by.

Liz didn’t seem to be falling for any of the men, but she was certainly happy. Bett was happy because her mother was happy. The chain reaction stopped with Zach. He’d initiated the matchmaking game, so he said nothing.

Actually, he’d been saying less day by day. And tonight the silence all around him as he drove seemed an outer manifestation of something he felt inside.

A few minutes later, Zach twisted the knob of the front door and let himself into the house. The glare of far too many lights assaulted him first. The rest of the room kind of hit him like a sniper’s bullets, one thing after another, as he hung up his coat and, for some strange reason, just stood there.

It was a stranger’s room, his living room. A canary cage blocked the entrance. He was fond of animals, but had never taken to caged birds. The bookshelves had been cluttered up with knickknacks. Bett’s greenery had plastic flowers sticking out of the pots. A purple, green and yellow afghan had been thrown over the couch. The furniture had been rearranged-actually, it had happened some time ago, but he just now seemed to notice it. A velvet-cushioned rocker occupied the prime sun spot. Bett’s type of clutter-a sweater over a chair, four opened books, the pewter collection of tiny creatures, the spray of dried wild flowers on the coffee table-no longer seemed to exist. His magazines had been banished to the study.

He stared for a moment longer before silently making his way toward the chatter coming from the brightly lit kitchen. He found himself pausing for a moment in that doorway, too, before moving forward. Bett hadn’t come with him tonight because she was exhausted to the point of being cranky and wanted nothing more than to wash her hair, soak in a tub and fall into bed.

Her hair wasn’t washed yet. She was still wearing gold cords and his old brown sweater, and she was kneeling on the kitchen counter, dragging dishes down from the top shelf and passing them into her mother’s waiting hands. Liz popped him her usual bright smile before Bett swiveled her soft eyes in his direction, tossing a “Hi, honey” to him before she impatiently finished a sentence to her mother. He made no reply. But then, Bett wasn’t expecting one.

Absently, he opened a cupboard, while tuning in on the newest crisis under discussion. Thanksgiving. Evidently, everything in the cupboard had to be washed before Thanksgiving whether it was to be used or not. The preholiday mania emanated from Liz; Bett was laughing, but her voice was strained.

Zach studied the cupboard’s contents. These days the top shelf by the refrigerator held a full supply of alcoholic beverages; they needed those to entertain. After a moment, he decided on neat whiskey, poured a couple shots in a glass, and wandered toward his study.

He closed the door, and a feeling halfway between relief and anger pulsed through him as he slouched down in the old antique office chair behind the desk. The room was peaceful and silent, filled with his books and farming magazines, the oak desk he loved, the burnt-orange carpet that blended in a soothing way with the dark wood paneling. Bett’s pewter collection, he noticed suddenly, had been relegated to the top shelf in here. Restlessly, he shoved a booted foot against the desk, swirled the amber liquid in his glass and after a moment or two, leaned back his head.

He was in much the same position some twenty minutes later.

“Zach?” Bett’s head peeked around the corner of the door, her eyes uncertainly seeking the still form of her husband behind the desk. Zach had come in from the meeting with a rare aura around him that spelled mood. Her pulse had been beating unevenly ever since, and the cool blue eyes staring back at her didn’t help any. “What’s wrong?” she said quietly.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted a few minutes of peace and quiet.”

The words were innocuous enough. It was the slight edge to his tone. Testy, unwelcoming…hostile? Bett forced a smile. “Did your meeting go okay?”

“Fine. Your mother go to bed?”

“Yes.” Tight little balls were collecting in every muscle in her body. They had been threatening all day. “Tired?”

“Not really.”

He hadn’t shut her out like this in a long time. In the next life, Bett decided, she was going to marry a ranting shouter. Zach was unbearably calm in anger. His rare silences sent a tense rush of panic up and down her nerves, anxiety she just didn’t know how to allay. “Something is wrong,” she said hesitantly.

“You’ve been up three nights in a row,” he said flatly. “Just go get some sleep, Bett.”

“You’ll be up soon?”

“Sooner or later.”

She edged back out of the doorway. His tone of voice gave her very little choice. She glanced at the stairs, but found herself wandering toward the kitchen again, dragging her hand through her hair. After spending the past three hours with the silver polish, all her muscles were complaining. Bett felt irritable. Her mother hadn’t even thought of the project until after dinner. It wasn’t a totally unreasonable idea; they were feeding three extra mouths at Thanksgiving, and Elizabeth always panicked if everything wasn’t just so for a holiday. Which was fine. Only now Bett was too darn tired to wash her hair, and when she didn’t wash her hair every second day she felt irritable.

And she was about as sleepy as a young baby with colic. Who on earth cared about hair? Her stomach understood that Zach was angry; it was knotting up in fists. Actually, Zach was very rarely angry. Zach was the easygoing one, the patient half of the pair, the control-over-emotional-upheaval half. When he slipped out of character, it was amazing how fast the whole fabric of their lives unraveled. Absently, Bett gazed around the spotless kitchen, then wandered to the liquor cupboard. She poured herself something or other from a green bottle, took a sip and grimaced. Firewater, she thought dryly. The stuff did slide nicely down her throat, but it seemed to settle around all the knots in her stomach and not do anything about them. Nor did it miraculously make her sleepy.

There was another sip yet in the glass, which she carried back with her to the study door. Taking a breath, she pushed open the door again. With her chin just slightly uptilted, she very determinedly and in total silence curled unobtrusively in the far corner of the old leather couch behind Zach’s desk.

Zach said nothing at her second intrusion. His hair was layered from the wind, thick and brown and warm under the light behind him, but his face could have been carved in marble. He looked strikingly handsome when he was like that. An artist would have seen it: the compelling male, the ice of anger, the pride and control; it was bone and flesh and man and Zach, handsome in a way no other man could be. Only Bett didn’t need him quite that good-looking. “It’s been building all week, hasn’t it?” she said softly.

“There is no crime in wanting a few minutes alone.”

“You’re angry.”

He didn’t hesitate. “As hell.”

“At…me.”

“At you.”

She set down the glass, thinking of all the times they’d bickered. Zach was darn close to a bastard when he had a cold; she was impossible to live with about the third day into a snow-in. That was bickering. This was something else. If on rare occasions Zach had turned icy before, that was like the cube versus the berg this time. And she didn’t have the least idea what was wrong.

Zach picked up a pencil from the desk, weighing the thing in his hands, and then started idly flipping it over, eraser tip to lead, then lead tip to eraser. “It’s way past time you called it off,” he said flatly.

She waited. If that was supposed to mean something, she most definitely didn’t understand what.

“I’m the one who asked your mother here. She always did strike me as a little off the wall. In a nice way. Whatever. Maybe I didn’t really understand how nerve-racking she’d be day by day, but I thought I could handle it.” His eyes suddenly met hers, hard and flat. “And over time, I discovered that I can handle it. She drives me absolutely nuts, but I love her, too. And if I hadn’t given a damn about her, I would have found a way to deal with her. For your sake,” he said quietly. “Only, Bett, you’re undermining both of us, and I’m furious.”

She opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her a chance to say anything.

“You’re the one who’s always had trouble with her, Bett. I know you as wife and lover, not as daughter. That whole scene of daughter makes you unhappy, guilty, unsure-I don’t know what you want to call it. Sometime or other you had to work out those feelings. This seemed like a good time. She needed you, and you wanted to be there for her-fine. Because even if every chip was down, I was there to help. I thought we’d deal with it together.”

“I thought that’s what we’ve been doing,” Bett said softly. “I don’t understand, Zach. That’s exactly what’s been happening-we talked. If you don’t think I appreciate what you-”

“To hell with that.” Zach lurched out of his chair, tossed the pencil on the desk, jammed his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the bookcase in the shadows. “I walked into this house tonight and didn’t even recognize the place. It isn’t home. It isn’t my house. It isn’t the place you and I put together anymore. And while Liz may be the one who made the changes, she’s made them with your consent.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Bett said defensively. “You were the one who asked her here. She could hardly come and stay for any period of time without leaving her things around-”

“If we had a child,” Zach interrupted flatly, “I expect the house would be total chaos. Diapers and interrupted love scenes and bottles and crying and dinner at odd hours. I keep thinking about that. Of how I would be bothered by that. But the truth is, two bits, I wouldn’t be bothered by it at all.”

His head was certainly going faster than hers; she didn’t understand the connection. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“It wouldn’t bother me, because chaos doesn’t bother me, just like odd dinner hours don’t bother me. I can live with an awful lot as long as you’re happy. Only you’re not happy. Your pewter’s been banished to the study and plastic flowers have taken over the living room. I’ll laugh if you will-but I haven’t seen you laughing. Bett, she isn’t sick. She isn’t still grieving the way she was. You’ve had me to back you up, to support you, and you know it. So why the hell are we living in Elizabeth’s house?”

Bett uncoiled from the couch, stiff and hurting and suddenly furious at his even tone. She hadn’t been prepared for knife wounds this evening. She thought fleetingly that she could be married for a million years and never be prepared for a hurt deliberately delivered by her mate. “Come on. You think that’s fair?” she protested. “If our lifestyle’s changed, it’s because you invited her here. All I’ve been doing is the best I know how to-”

“You haven’t done a damn thing but let it happen,” he said flatly. “You know exactly what we value as a couple, what we need as lovers, what the two of us are all about. And it’s really as simple as the lock on the bedroom door that doesn’t exist-but you bought that lock, didn’t you, Bett? It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”

She swallowed, folding her arms stiffly across her chest. “I could hardly put it on. I knew just how hurt she’d be if she saw it, how horribly embarrassed at the thought that she’d been interrupting-”

“Right. A lock wasn’t the answer. Telling her to handle her own insomnia was. I tried once-and failed. Your mother has a disarming way of being manipulative. But I didn’t try again, because the fact is, two bits, it was your job. She’s your mother. And you’re the one who needs to deal with her.”

He was very still, half in shadow, half in light. Waiting. For what? she thought furiously. “What did you want me to tell her, to stay out because we wanted to make love?”

“Yes.”

“Zach, that’s ridiculous,” Bett hissed.

“No,” he said quietly. “It would just be hard. And that isn’t the same thing as ridiculous at all. What you and I have built together-you have to stand up for it sometime. Now, if you want me to put it all back in order, I will-so fast it’ll make your head spin. This is not your mother’s house. It’s yours. I can do it for you, Bett, but somehow I never thought I’d have to. Do the two of us mean something to you?”

Tears burned in her eyes. “Of course we do,” she said in a low voice. “How could you even ask that? Zach, if you’re demanding that I make her leave-”

He shook his head. “You’re not hearing me at all, honey. I don’t give a damn if your mother leaves or stays. I’m talking about you and me.” He straightened, staring at her. “You’d better think it out,” he said flatly. “Soon.”

He walked past her, and a moment later she heard the thudding sound of his footsteps on the stairs. She couldn’t seem to look away from the blank, empty doorway. The tears dried in her eyes, leaving a salty aftersting. She felt cold. Her fingers curled around her upper arms, rubbing up and down. Zach? So cruel? You haven’t done a thing but let it all happen. Did he think it had all been so easy on her? How unfair could one man be?

Her head ached, and an odd tremor disturbed the even beat of her heart. Fear. Never in the five years of her marriage had she ever considered that Zach might leave her. He hadn’t threatened to leave her now, but it was there, suddenly, the reminder that love wasn’t carved in stone and never came with a guarantee.

Déjà vu: She could remember exactly that tremorous heartbeat from when she’d first fallen in love with him. An incredible elation when she was with him, followed seconds later by depression at the thought that she could lose him, followed seconds later by elation again. She’d forgotten about those insane mood swings. Other people in love seemed to exhibit the same psychotic symptoms. But they’d gone away, of course, because once she had the ring on her finger she didn’t have to worry quite so much about that love. Did she?

Where had that horrible lump in her throat come from? Darn it, she was exhausted. And confused. She switched off the lights in Zach’s study and the lights in the kitchen and headed for the stairs. And then didn’t go up. The house suddenly seemed smothering to her. Mindlessly, she grabbed a coat from the front hall closet and let herself out the front door.

Cold wind snatched at her hair and whipped around her cheeks; she gulped it into her lungs. Her legs were in a terrible hurry, walking nowhere. Just down a farm road. A few snowflakes fluttered down, blurring her vision. The uneven earth set obstacles in her path, just small stones and ridges and hollows, but she could barely see in the darkness. She stumbled, yet didn’t slow her headlong pace.

It helped, the rush. Anger bubbled up inside of her, shunting aside the unbearable fear. Zach had asked Elizabeth here; she hadn’t. Did he think there’d be no piper to pay, having someone else in the house with them full-time?

For Bett, there’d always been a piper to pay where her mother was concerned. Resentment and love came in the same package. She’d thought that Zach understood. Just as he’d said, for once in their lives she’d wanted to relate successfully to her mother. Now, when Elizabeth needed her. And that’s all I’ve been doing, Bett thought furiously. Being good to Mom. Loving her. Caring for her. So where exactly was the crime?

She walked and stumbled, walked and stumbled. Out of nowhere, Zach had turned selfish. Men were the pits. Husbands were the worst. She was not Wonder Woman. She was so damned tired she could barely see straight. Exactly what more was she supposed to do?

She walked through the orchards, over the clover hill, past the woods, and finally stopped at the pond, out of breath. The full moon was partially shrouded by clouds, but that faint silver circle still glistened on the icy waters. The cattails were brown now; frogs and crickets had gone to sleep for the winter. Her fingers were so cold she could barely feel them; she jammed her hands into her pockets.

Zach was clearly being a bastard. Unfair, unreasonable, callous, insensitive. Yet that whisper of fear shivered again through Bett’s bloodstream. Fear that came from nowhere. From the wind and the night.

She was so totally different from her mother. She’d tried, so often, to be a Brittany. She’d been trying for almost three months. She’d been miserable most of that time. Just once, she thought fleetingly, she had wanted her mother to say that she understood. The farm, her chosen lifestyle, the zillions of things that made up the person that Bett was. The woman she was.

Winning approval was a game that children played. There must still be some of that child in her, because Bett suddenly saw all too clearly how much she had sacrificed in the past three months, trying to win it. Mothers were such very powerful people. Love wasn’t the only thing that made up that blood tie; there was the intrinsic definition of femininity, of everything it meant to be a woman. A mother spelled out her version of that definition first, before anyone else had a chance.

Tears burst from her eyes suddenly, shocking her, choking her. They kept on coming. She’d tried so damn hard. Damn Zach. How dare he think she hadn’t minded the changes in the household, the loss of their privacy? How could he accuse her of not valuing the love they had? Couldn’t he understand the impossible position she’d found herself in, trying to please her mother, her husband and herself? It was a no-win situation. What on earth did he expect her to do?

What she’d been doing was walking a tightrope, trying to live by her mother’s standards, trying to appease Zach. He was the one who was angry? She was the one who’d gotten totally lost in the meantime.

So who let that happen, Bett? nagged a most unwelcome voice inside of her. Zach? Your mother? Or you?

The night was frigidly cold. She could not remember ever feeling a wind quite like this one, so unforgiving, so fierce and icy and eerily silent.