His eyes were open, too. His look was coldly cruel, penetrating, as if he could somehow force her to see things as he did.
He let go swiftly, half pushing her away. But he never broke that hard look. “Use that brain of yours to think about it. Too many men are like me. Out to get what they can. Any way they can. Accept it, sweetheart.”
She watched him walk away. She brought a hand to her head and just stood there. Something was wrong with her.
She had no idea how long she stood there, staring at the horizon, then down at the water. After a few more minutes she sank down onto the sand, just sat there thinking.
Suddenly she felt more alone than she had in a long time. Alone and confused. Nothing made sense.
She began to draw in the sand a list of words., single, disjointed words. Hank. Man. Margaret. Kiss. Love? Sick! Blame? Humidity. Hot. Sun. Trauma. Something. Anything.
She stared at her list. A second later, she frantically rubbed out the words.
* * *
Two hours later,Margaret swept a strand of hair out of her face and stared at the burnt remains of three fish. They had been a good ten inches long. Now they held a striking resemblance to small, black goldfish.
She picked up one of the smoldering sticks Hank had carved as a spit. It broke in half. The stick and the fish crumbled into the fire. She just stared at it, unable to believe that she could possibly have burned another meal.
“Are those fish done yet?” Hank and the children walked toward her.
She looked at the fish, then up at him. “Yes. I’d say they’re done.”
“Good!” He stepped around her, took one look at the fire, and bellowed, “Dammit, Smitty!”
With an uneasy sense of failure and embarrassment she looked at their hungry faces. She gave them a forced smile. “Anyone else for bananas?”
The day only got worse. It was one of those days that had all the earmarks of being so rotten that one looked forward to night. She busied herself with the children, made Theodore bathe, then sent him on his way while Lydia took her turn at the pool. The girl finished and changed into a small flannel nightdress they had found in one of the trunks.
In the bright afternoon sunlight, Margaret had brushed Lydia’s hair back and tied it with blue ribbons. In between grabs at Annabelle to keep her from falling in the water—and a few close calls when the baby had tried to eat a butterfly, two beetles, and leaves from all the surrounding bushes—it had taken almost an hour to get Lydia’s hair dry and silky.
“All done.” Brush in hand, Margaret stood back, waiting to see if Lydia would smile. Even just a look of pleasure or delight would be enough.
Lydia knelt at the edge of the pool and frowned down at her reflection. She stood up quickly. “I’ll take Annabelle so you can bathe now.” was all she said.
No “Thank you” or “I like it.” Nothing. Lydia handed Margaret the ball of soap.
Margaret felt like a complete failure. She watched the girl walk toward the arm of rocks that hid the pool and called out. “Lydia!”
She turned around.
“Do you like your hair?”
Lydia shrugged. “Mama always used yellow ribbons.” And she and Annabelle disappeared around the rocks.
Shaking her head, she set down the soap, stripped, and walked into the pool. As the water lapped around her, she made a mental note to let Lydia pick her own ribbons in the future.
Margaret stared down at her reflection. She looked like something the cat dragged in. Actually, she looked worse.
She ducked underwater and surfaced. She looked at herself again and wondered who the woman was that looked back at her.
She was an attorney, not a mother.
An intelligent and fairly talented woman to whom most things had come naturally, easily. It had always amazed her father and uncles at how she had grasped the intricacies of the legal field as easily as someone born with the knowledge. She could usually think her way out of any sticky situation.
But here on this island, with the children and Hank, nothing seemed to work right. She didn’t understand children any more than she understood Hank.
And it wasn’t only her inability to do something as simple as cook. That just seemed to symbolize everything she couldn’t grasp.
