“Is that why”—her deep-seated bitterness made an impromptu appearance—“he never contacted me after he and my mother were divorced? Is that why he left me alone, to be shuttled back and forth to the least fortunate relative? Is that why I’ve been totally on my own since I was eighteen?”
“He was hurt—” Tony began in explanation, only to be interrupted by her cutting cry.
“So was I! Where was he then?” Drained by her outburst, she collapsed against the couch and laid her head back, eyes closed. But she listened; she listened as, with quiet insistence, Tony told the story she had avoided hearing for so long.
“Timothy O’Neill is a very proud man. He had nothing when he met your mother. They talked of things they could build together—with his mind and her money. They never talked of love; it seemed secondary to them. When they married, it was a merger, with each party contributing his share in hopes of a great success. Unfortunately, there was a personality clash early on. Though they lived together as man and wife for a time, they never felt any warmth for each other.Youwere the only worthwhile product of the union.”
“How do you know all this? Did my—didhetell you?”
“Bit by bit. It was hard for him to talk about it.”
“If there were no feelings of love between him and my mother, why was he so disturbed?” she asked skeptically.
Tony’s expression was one of reproach. “There wasyou.The marriage itself meant nothing to him. But he did love you.”
“Yet he gave me up—lock, stock, and barrel?”
“He had no choice. Your mother saw to that. Look”—he quickly qualified his statement—“I have nothing to say against your mother. It was a mistake they both made. Andhehas had nothing bad to say about your mother … ever. Perhaps that was why he waited so long to even discuss it; perhaps he had to understand it himself.” He paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “At any rate, the terms of the divorce were that she had sole custody. Your mother left with you and forbid him to come near.”
The lawyer in Justine broke forth. “How could any court abide by that kind of decision? He could have sued for visitation rights.”
Tony shook his head sadly. “I’m sure you recall how messy the trial itself was. And”—his voice lowered—“the fact that your father had a woman he declared himself in love withand… an illegitimate son … didn’t help his cause. That’s adultery, among other things.”
For the first time Justine thought of the discomfort Tony would be feeling in this retelling of the events of so long ago. With this realization came a gentling of her voice. “Tell me about your childhood.Wasit a happy one, Tony?”
His smile was nearly apologetic. “Yes. It was. Very happy. I had two parents, each of whom loved me and adored each other. Oh, there were the same minor traumas that all families live with—small illnesses, dubious school grades, inflation. Though we weren’t what I would call wealthy, we lived very comfortably. Despite his differences with your mother, Timothy O’Neill was a solid, dependable man.”
For long moments of silence Justine ingested his words. If she had feared them, she wasn’t now sure why. The picture Tony had painted of his parents and home was a lovely one, a comforting one. Yet, she had never been able to face this possibility before. Why?
“He thought of you often, Justine. Every year, come April second, he would go into his den and sit, alone, thinking.”
Justine gasped, her eyes widening and flooding. “My birthday …”
“That’s right. Your birthday. He was afraid, though. Justine, you have to understand that he was human. And he was afraid. He was afraid that you wouldn’t want to see him, after everything that had happened. That was why he sent me.” He smiled in remembrance. “When I first saw you, I knew you immediately. Then, I went home. Dad questioned me for hours about you. He wanted to know everything.” He sobered once more. “I won’t say that he has pined away his life, Justine. That wouldn’t be true. He is determined to live life to its fullest—isn’t that what we all share?” She nodded as he went on. “But you were never far from his thoughts. You were his own private child. He was—heisvery proud of you.”
It was all so difficult for her to absorb that Justine found her cheeks damp once more. For years she had hated her father, had pictured him an ogre for not claiming her. For years she had generalized from her experience to others, refusing to hear, to listen, to stories similar to the one Tony had just told. Confusion was compounded as the intensely caring man across the room spoke again.
“And that’s why you are wrong to shut yourself off from Sloane. It’s obvious how much you love him, Justine, and, from what you describe of his attempts to keep you near him, he must return that feeling. Your parents werenotthe norm; there wasneverany love there, not even at the start. With you and Sloane, it is different. You would be basing your future on a very strong love and you would have a solid frame on which to work. Oh, I’m not saying,” he continued gently, “that there wouldn’t be problems. No two people can live, day in, day out with each other without minor differences of opinion. That’s what being an individual is all about. But the coming together—it would be there for you and Sloane. You simply have to want it enough. You have to be willing to fight for it—ifit means enough to you.”
Fight for it.His words echoed through her mind in endless reverberation over the next few days. Hadn’t she been a fighter—when it came to her education, to her right to go to law school, to her equal opportunity as a lawyer? In those cases she had known the cause for which she fought. But what did she want now? What was she to fight for?
There was no child to fight for; the sinking in of that knowledge left her half-whole and deeply sorrowed. Yet, had she wanted the child for itself or as a mind-link to Sloane? Much as she wanted to believe that the former was true, in good faith she could not. Oh, yes, she had wanted Sloane’s child with all her heart; but it wasSloane’sshe wanted, onlySloane’s.
Days and nights of soul-searching brought things into sharper focus. Analytically she examined what she had. There was her career, on hold now, but waiting impatiently for her return. There were her friends, ever solicitous about her “illness” and a diversionary comfort. There was a future of more work, new friends, perhaps travel—yet it all lacked one essential ingredient.
With the return of her physical strength came the strength to admit that she had been wrong. In all her life’s plans, she had never allowed for love. It had taken her by storm. Sloane himself had taken her by storm. Now, the presence of love shaded every other aspect of her life. In the time she had known him, in the times they had spent together, in the very depth of love they had shared, she had known a completeness of her character, a true and utter contentment. Only now that she’d seen what love could do did she see what she had missed before. Only in hindsight did she know the meaning of love. And—in foresight—what then?
Could she agree to marry Sloane and risk an even greater pain than that of going through life without him? As she asked herself this very question, she knew its answer. Its answer was in the ache in her heart, the emptiness in her womb, the deep, deep yearning in the dark-hidden core that cried out for him. For the first time she knew that the pain of facing life without Sloane would be infinitely greater than any other possible source of pain. Therein, her decision was made.
It was nearly three weeks following her miscarriage, an early Wednesday evening. Her time was chosen well, calculating as she had that Sloane would be staying in the city at his penthouse, rather than driving out to Westport.
As she carefully dressed, she felt a spark of life she hadn’t felt since before her return from Alaska. It was mid-October now. New York was embroiled in an Indian summer such as it hadn’t known in years. Temperatures had hovered in the high eighties for two days; on this evening it was warm but comfortable. Though she had put on several pounds during the past weeks, Justine was aware of the loose fit of her sand-hued gabardine slacks, grateful for the pleats in front and the belt at the waist that, cinched in, gave the fitted look she wanted. Her blouse was of soft brown silk, draped easily over her arms, falling softly from her shoulders and breasts to disappear into her pants. Rest had erased the dark smudges from beneath her eyes, as it had eased the lines of tension which had been present when he had last seen her.
Lightly applying dabs of mascara and blusher, she glossed her lips, fluffed her hair, then stood back, eyeing the woman in the mirror with intent scrutiny. Attractive, yes. Stunning, no. Vulnerable, yes. Confident, no. And very, very apprehensive, without a doubt.
With momentary determination, she cleared her mind of the situations she might face when she finally saw Sloane. She wouldn’t take it that far. Every instinct told her that to see him, to talk with him, was imperative, yet what she would say or do was still a mystery to her. Unseen forces drove her on, bidding her gather her purse and keys, take the elevator to the lobby, and slide into the cab which the doorman summoned. It was her voice that issued the address, her hand that fumbled with her wallet as she arrived at her destination, her eyes that spoke of uncertainty as she entered the stately high rise and encountered its security guard.
“Sloane Harper, please,” she said, willing calm.
