Three For The Road

Dear Reader,

I have to admit, I had an ideal research arrangement during the writing of this “Nine Months Later” story. My daughter was expecting her first baby, which allowed me to become intimately reacquainted with pregnancy and its many joys and woes.

One of those joys was a baby shower that I hosted, an affair my daughter really, really wanted. Not for the presents, she said. She merely wanted a get-together with friends and family to celebrate her pregnancy. She was especially looking forward to the stories women typically swap at showers, about morning sickness and bloated ankles, stretch marks and fifty-hour labors.

I didn’t fully understand until the day of the shower, when thirty women were gathered in my living room. And there in the middle of them was my daughter, enthusiastically swapping stories with the best of them. Entering the sisterhood of motherhood.

It’s difficult to explain my feelings at the time. I just know I was suddenly very glad I’d had the shower and given my daughter her moment.

For as joyous as pregnancy is, it can also be a frightening time. Ready or not, one’s life is about to change, drastically and forever. I can’t imagine going through it without a wide net of support—a loving husband, friends, family. Not only do they minimize the terror of impending motherhood, through their joy they expand one’s own joy, as well.

Writing Three for the Road gave me a new appreciation for the importance of support systems. My pregnant heroine has no one. Not only is Mary Elizabeth unmarried, she’s also leaving home, job and everyone she’s ever known. I found this a most distressing situation! The mother in me wanted to throw a shower for her, surround her with friends and family who’d assure her she was not alone. The writer in me gave her Pete. I hope you approve.

All the best,

Shannon Waverly

Three for the Road

Shannon Waverly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

CHARLES DRUMMOND STARED at his daughter over his reading glasses. “How far along are you?”

Mary Elizabeth swallowed. “Nearly three months.”

“Nearly three months,” he echoed, his long patrician face set in distaste.

“I’m sorry,” she said on a broken whisper.

Removing his glasses and tossing them onto the desk, he got to his feet and began to pace. “How could you do this, Mary Elizabeth?” He didn’t raise his voice. A Drummond never did. “How could you bring such disgrace to this house?”

Above his meticulously groomed gray head hung a family portrait painted seventeen years earlier, one year after he’d been named president of the Deerfield Institution for Savings and two years before his wife’s death. The five Drummonds presented as perfect a family image as ever there was, even to the extent that the artist had inadvertently painted Mary Elizabeth’s eyes blue instead of brown, to match everyone else’s.

“But no one cares about such things anymore.” Mary Elizabeth spread her hands. “Times have changed.”

Charles stopped pacing. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “If you believe that, you’re more a fool than I thought.”

She flinched.

“People talk, Mary Elizabeth, especially about families like ours. And they never forget. Ten years from now, twenty, they’ll still remember you as the Drummond girl who got pregnant before she was married.”

This wasn’t the way she’d envisioned their conversation. She’d entered this library hoping they’d discuss her situation like two rational, enlightened adults. She hadn’t come looking for easy answers; all she’d wanted was his love and support during a difficult time. When would she ever learn?

Charles reseated himself in his leather chair with a long disgruntled sigh. “Have you set a date?”

“For what?”

“A wedding, of course. Have you and Roger set a date?”

Her breath stalled. “No. Roger doesn’t even know.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Are you afraid he’ll refuse to marry you? He won’t. He’s an extraordinarily decent young man.”

“Father, we broke up seven weeks ago. It’s over between us.”

Charles breathed out a bitter laugh. “Apparently not.”

“But I don’t want to marry Roger. We don’t love each other.”

“You made your bed, Mary Elizabeth...or do you think you’re so extraordinary you should be excused from doing what’s morally right?”

“No, of course not, but I don’t see the point of raising a child in a loveless home.”

“You should be grateful to be so lucky. Roger has a good job and a secure future at the bank. He doesn’t have any vices that I can see...well, any

other

 vices.” His hard blue eyes flicked briefly to her waist. “He comes from a pleasant family....”

But Mary Elizabeth was still shaking her head. “Marrying under these circumstances, he’d feel trapped. He’d resent me and the baby. I don’t want that.”

“What do you intend to do, then, have it out of wedlock?”

“I...yes, that’s an option.”

Charles shot her a crippling look. “Over my dead body.”

“But—”

“I don’t care if certain segments of society have relaxed their standards, or that unmarried mothers are as common these days as the married variety. Drummonds do not belong to that vulgar trash.”

Mary Elizabeth glanced at the painting, blinking away tears. It seemed she’d been receiving lectures all her life on how Drummonds did or did not behave. Once again, she didn’t measure up.

“Tell me, what sort of social life do you expect to have, burdened with a child?”

She misunderstood his remark as rising from concern and was about to reassure him when he added, “Who do you think is going to be interested in you now?”

A piercing pain sliced right through her.

“It isn’t merely that you’re pregnant, although Lord knows that’s a formidable enough reason for any man to avoid getting involved with you. After all, who wants to take on another man’s child?”

Mary Elizabeth’s breathing had become so labored it felt as if someone had stuffed a rag down her throat.

“It’s also the fact that you’ve obviously had intimate relations, and by remaining unmarried, you’re all but announcing to the world that those relations were meaningless. From there, I’m afraid, it’s an easy leap for people to see you as indiscriminate and promiscuous. In plain English, Mary Elizabeth, they’ll see you as cheap.”

With each word he leveled at her, Mary Elizabeth felt smaller and dirtier. She sensed she ought to say something in her defense, but her will to act seemed to have deserted her. On a level she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, she knew her father made sense.

“I hope you realize I’m saying these things only because I’m concerned about your future happiness. I want to see you settled, with a family, in your own home. But if you continue to follow this path, I don’t see how that’s possible.” Charles smoothed a palm over the desk blotter, wiping away imaginary dust. “Now, you might argue there are lots of broad-minded men out there who’d be interested in you, but don’t kid yourself, Mary Elizabeth. Most decent men still want to marry a ‘nice’ girl, no matter how liberal they claim to be, and I hate to say this, but the label that’s usually attached to the sort of woman you aspire to being is—” he cleared his throat “—’used goods.’”

In a mature, detached part of her brain, Mary Elizabeth marveled at her father’s ability to manipulate her emotions. Equally astonishing was her inability to stand up to him. But it wasn’t really such a mystery; they’d had a lifetime of this sort of confrontation to perfect the pattern.

Unfortunately, knowing what was happening still didn’t prevent her from being reduced to a helpless bundle of shame and guilt. She could only lower her eyes and hope she didn’t break down before she reached her room.

Charles folded his hands on the desk blotter. “Have you considered terminating the situation?”

Mary Elizabeth blinked, rising out of her pain. “No.”

“And why not?”

She reared back in sheer incredulity. Her father had been a pro-lifer as long as she could remember. But apparently the “morally right thing to do” existed on a sliding scale, depending on how close to home an unpleasant situation struck.

“I just can’t.”

He shook his head. “Ah, Mary Elizabeth. You’ve always been a burden.”

She looked down at the Persian carpet, remembering other times, other lectures, when she’d stood just so. Yes, she’d been a burden to him, not as studious as his two other children, not as well-groomed, never as well-behaved. She’d tried. Lord, how she’d tried. But evidently there was simply something inherently wrong with her.

Charles pinned her with a look of renewed determination. “Tell Roger.”

She shook her head.

“If you don’t, I will.”

Panic engulfed her. “You can’t.”

“I most certainly can. If you insist on having this baby, then, by God, you’ll have it married. You’ll give no one reason to gossip.” Not for a second did he doubt his ability to persuade Roger to marry her. Neither did Mary Elizabeth. Apart from the fact that Roger idolized Charles, he enjoyed his job far too much to cross his employer.

For one brief moment, Mary Elizabeth regained her normal adult perspective and saw her father’s attitude as absurd and archaic. She was twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake. She was an educated, accomplished woman in a professional career. He had no business dictating her decisions, especially one that was so important. And that was why, when he offered her one last alternative—the choice to go away, have the child and give it up for adoption, a choice she was already leaning heavily toward herself—she said no.

“No?” Charles jerked his head, as if her impudence had struck him a physical blow.

“No.”

In a most uncharacteristic loss of control, he flung a priceless paperweight across the room. It hit a plaster bust of Winston Churchill, leaving the statesman without a chin. “Damn you, Mary Elizabeth! You’re just like your mother.”

Mary Elizabeth frowned. She didn’t understand his comment and would have let it go—if he just hadn’t turned so red.

“What do you mean, I’m just like my mother?”

He continued to stare at her, saying nothing, but a look came into his eyes, an angry determination she thought she’d seen over the years now and again, a look almost too fleeting for her to be sure it had been there before it moved on, always leaving her trembling and relieved when it did.

“Tell me.” She shot forward, gripping the edge of his desk, challenging him, finally.

This time the look in his eyes didn’t pass. It settled in and focused, like the cross hairs on a rifle.

“Why am I like my mother?” she persisted. “Tell me.”

And he did.

CHAPTER ONE

KEEP MOVING, DRUMMOND. Don’t think. Just pick up the carton and go!

Mary Elizabeth obeyed her own command, ignoring her fatigue and mounting anxiety, and carried the last of her bedroom things down the wide, elegantly turned stairs.

But at the open front door, a surge of sadness blindsided her and caused her to hesitate. Outside, at the top of the circular brick driveway, basking in the golden September sun, was what might appear to be an ordinary eighteen-foot motor home. To Mary Elizabeth, however, it was her future.

Behind her rose the dignified, twelve-room Georgian where she’d lived all her life—her past. Her very definite, no-coming-back past. Her throat tightened and her eyes threatened to well up again.

Fortunately, Mrs. Pidgin chose that moment to come lumbering down the hall from the kitchen. The poor woman was already upset enough and didn’t need to see Mary Elizabeth breaking down, too. She pulled in a fortifying breath and smiled before turning.

The short, sixty-year-old housekeeper was carrying two plastic grocery bags by their straining handles, their weight seeming to tip her blocky form side to side as she walked. Like a windup toy, Mary Elizabeth thought with painfully deep affection. She only hoped the woman didn’t end up like most of those toys, overbalanced and on her side.

“What’s all this?” she asked. They’d already packed the RV with more than enough food to get her through her trip from Maine to Florida.

“Just a little extra. You never know.”

Mary Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Mrs. Pidgin was fussing over her as if she were setting off on a months-long journey in a covered wagon instead of a three-day zip down the interstate.

“Thanks, Mrs. P. But I wish you’d stop worrying. I’m going to be fine.”

“Of course you will. Of course.”

They both looked at the foyer floor, unable to hold each other’s gaze, then hastily headed out to the motor home.

Inside the vehicle, Mary Elizabeth threaded her way through the kitchen, down the short passageway with the bathroom on one side and storage cupboards on the other, to the bedroom at the rear. With a grunt of relief, she dropped the box she was carrying onto one of the two twin beds—already overburdened with her belongings.

The motor home was a marvel of storage compartments, but in her haste she hadn’t packed as efficiently as she could have. She’d do that later, when she had more time. Right now she felt compelled to hurry. Charles had gone to the bank this morning, giving no indication he’d be returning to see her off, but Mary Elizabeth didn’t trust him anymore. She especially didn’t trust him to keep from speaking to Roger.

Although Charles abhorred the idea of her staying in town, pregnant and unmarried, he didn’t like her going away so abruptly, either. People were bound to wonder what had happened here to cause such unseemly behavior, he said. He also worried about her accidentally running into people they knew during her pregnancy. And what if she decided to return with the baby some day? His lack of control over the situation bothered him, and she knew he’d started thinking of telling Roger again. To Charles, marriage was still the best solution to the problem.

Mrs. Pidgin was fitting a package of six single-serving quiches in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator when Mary Elizabeth emerged from the bedroom.

“Here, let me help.” She dipped into the bag, pulled out a deli container of lobster salad and tossed it into the refrigerator.

Mrs. Pidgin closed the freezer. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that’ll make you change your mind.” It was a question, a last-ditch hope. She was the only person other than Charles who knew why Mary Elizabeth was leaving. She was the only person, period, who knew where she was going. Mary Elizabeth had told Charles Chicago, in case he decided to come looking for her, but she didn’t want to drop off the map entirely. She wanted someone here to know where she was if a family emergency arose.

“Change my mind? Afraid not, Mrs. P.”

The housekeeper’s face looked pained. “Well, I can’t really say as I blame you. Your father’s behavior this past week has been unforgivable.”

Mary Elizabeth worked at keeping her expression set. The past week had been difficult, that was for sure. Charles had found a reason to make each day hurtful and exhausting. He’d continued to harp on her pregnancy and denounce her choices, and always he wondered what people would say if they knew. The barbs that especially dug in, though, probably because she was already frightened and insecure, were the ones regarding her ability to survive on her own.

Charles accused her of having no real job skills or practical experience, and said the only reason she’d landed the curatorship at the local museum five years ago was that he had used his influence with the board. She’d never find another position like it, he said, just as she’d never find another man like Roger whom, coincidentally, Charles had also “provided” since he’d arranged their first date.

Mary Elizabeth didn’t know what she would have done without Mrs. Pidgin. The woman had always been an ally and a comfort, but never more so than this past week.

Mrs. Pidgin had accidentally overheard the tail end of the conversation between Mary Elizabeth and Charles in the library, the part about Eliza Drummond’s affair and Mary Elizabeth’s true parentage, and had followed Mary Elizabeth up to her room afterward. There a shattered Mary Elizabeth had broken down, letting the shock of Charles’s revelation give way to grief.

When she’d eventually brought her tears under control, she’d filled Mrs. Pidgin in on the rest of the conversation and the full scope of her dilemma. Mrs. Pidgin had been shaken when she learned of Mary Elizabeth’s pregnancy, but she’d controlled her reaction well, better than Mary Elizabeth had when she learned the housekeeper had known all along about Eliza’s illicit romance. Despite Charles’s order not to tell anyone, Eliza had confided in Mrs. Pidgin. Mary Elizabeth could understand why. In time of trouble, a more loyal and nonjudgmental friend couldn’t be found.

At present, that friend was folding the empty grocery bag with exaggerated care, distracted by her continuing worries.

“I just wish you weren’t taking the camper,” she said, frowning. “Such a big, difficult thing to drive.” She tucked the folded bag into a drawer crammed full of embroidered tea towels and cutwork napkins. “It would be a lot easier if you left it here and let my Alfred sell it for you. You could take a plane then, have a moving truck transport your things. That way you could relax, take more things with you, too.”

With a sigh, Mary Elizabeth reached into the second grocery bag. “I thought you understood, moving vans are expensive. So are plane tickets. Besides, I don’t need any more things.” She wasn’t sure of much these days, but she was certain that taking the RV was the right choice. Not only would it get her and her possessions to Sarasota economically, but it would also become her home once she got there.

Chloe, her old college roommate, lived in Sarasota, and when Mary Elizabeth made the decision to move away from the northeast, she’d immediately called Chloe. Her friend had said she knew of a trailer park a few miles from her house that might take her in. Mary Elizabeth hoped so. She didn’t want to impose on Chloe, who was a newlywed. Neither did she want to encumber herself with the expenses of an apartment until she was secure in a well-paying job, and that might be a while. In addition, things might not work out for her in the Sarasota area, and what better way to move on than to simply turn an ignition key?

With the groceries finally put away, she started for the door, eager to get the last of her belongings and be on her way.

“Stop a minute, will you please?” Mrs. Pidgin grasped Mary Elizabeth’s wrist. “I won’t keep you long, I promise.” The housekeeper tugged her gently toward the front of the RV. Mary Elizabeth took the driver’s seat, swiveling it to face the other.

“All right, so you’re going, then.”

Such a note of finality, Mary Elizabeth thought. She looked down at her clenched hands. A faint band of white skin, left by Roger’s engagement ring, was still discernible against her light tan. “Yes,” she said softly.

Mrs. Pidgin sighed. “You have to promise me you’ll be careful on the road. Florida is so far away, and you haven’t had that much experience driving or being on your own.”

It was useless to remind Mrs. Pidgin that she’d had her license for eleven years and never been in an accident. The woman worried as only a person could who’d never driven or traveled—irrationally.

Besides, there was a grain of truth to what Mrs. Pidgin said. Mary Elizabeth hadn’t traveled much. She’d bought the motor home a full year ago, but since then had taken only four weekend trips, all within New England.

“Please don’t worry. The trip takes only three days, four if I drive very slow, and it’s major highway all the way. What could possibly go wrong?”

The older woman stared deep into her eyes. “A lot,” she said, her voice grave.

“Don’t talk like that,” Mary Elizabeth chided mildly. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good. That’s good. The crime rate being what it is, you should be scared.” The housekeeper tipped to one side so she could slip her hand into the right pocket of her blue cotton housedress. “I have something I want to give you.” She pulled out a small plastic figure and set it on the dash.

“A St. Christopher?” Mary Elizabeth bit off a laugh.

“Ayeh.”

“But he was kicked off the saint roster almost thirty years ago.”

The woman’s look said she didn’t want to hear it. Mary Elizabeth closed her mouth and gave the icon, protector of travelers, a welcoming nod.

Mrs. Pidgin pulled a second item from her pocket, a square blue envelope. “I have something else.”

Mary Elizabeth gazed at the envelope. “What is it?”

“Something from your mother. She gave it to me before she died. She told me I was to give it to you only if Charles did something like he did this week and you found out he wasn’t your real father.”

Mary Elizabeth’s fine-boned jaw hardened. “What makes you think I want anything from her?”

“She was your mother, Mary Elizabeth, and no matter how upset you are with her now, you still love her. I know you do.” Mrs. Pidgin placed the envelope on Mary Elizabeth’s knee. “Here. It isn’t much, but it belongs with you now.”

Giving in to curiosity, Mary Elizabeth opened the envelope and pulled out a yellowed photograph. “Oh.” The sound she made was barely audible.

“Ayeh, that’s him, your real father. A handsome fella, wasn’t he. You have his eyes.”

Mary Elizabeth gazed at the man in the photo with a mixture of fascination and denial. He was slim, good-looking, young. A carpenter’s belt, heavy with tools, hung around his hips. Behind him rose the Drummond house with its sun room under construction.

Swallowing, she slipped the photograph into her open purse on the floor. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Wait. I have something else.” Mrs. Pidgin grunted as she tipped to the right, pushing her hand into her left pocket this time.

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes popped when she saw what the woman pulled out. “Where did you get such a thing?”

“Oh, it isn’t a real gun.”

Mary Elizabeth looked at her skeptically.

“Believe it or not, this is only a toy, a water pistol. My Alfred bought it for our grandson, but Judy wouldn’t allow him to keep it.”

“I can see why. It looks so real.” Mary Elizabeth gazed at the lethal-looking toy. She’d heard such things existed. She’d even read about them being used in robberies, but she’d never actually seen one before. “And you want me to...”

“Yes, take it. Here.” The housekeeper placed the water pistol in Mary Elizabeth’s lap. “I wish I had a real weapon to give you, but—” she shrugged “—this might work if you’re ever in a bind.”

Mary Elizabeth stifled the urge to laugh. She thought Mrs. Pidgin’s fear of traveling had put her over the edge, but she said a polite thank-you, anyway, and slipped the gun into her purse.

Mrs. Pidgin breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Now, another thing...” She dug into the pocket again. Mary Elizabeth was beginning to feel decidedly like a knight in a medieval tale, being given magical gifts before setting off on a quest.

“Here’s my cousin’s phone number in Orlando and my sister’s in Gainesville. If you ever need help, anything whatsoever...”

Mary Elizabeth nodded. “I’ll call. I promise I will.” She took the slip of paper and filed that in her bag, as well.

“You have enough money?”

“Yes, and my credit cards, too. Don’t worry.”

Mrs. Pidgin took Mary Elizabeth’s smooth, slender hands in her plump, work-reddened ones. “I have only one more thing to ask.” Her voice lowered. “If things don’t work out for you, you’ve got to promise me you won’t let pride prevent you from coming back.”

Mary Elizabeth turned her head and gazed out the windshield toward the perfectly sheared shrubs gracing the perfectly manicured lawn that surrounded Charles Drum-mond’s perfectly perfect house.

“I can’t promise that,” she replied hollowly.

“I know it hurts now but—”

“Hurts? Learning you aren’t who you always thought you were doesn’t ‘hurt.’ It’s more like having your entire world turned inside out.” Or maybe, she thought, like discovering that gravity doesn’t work anymore. Your footing is gone and you’re spinning away from everything that’s familiar, out of control, with nothing to hold you safe.

Turning, she saw that the housekeeper’s red-rimmed eyes had filled again.

“But such a big step.”

Mary Elizabeth pulled her hands away and placed them tentatively on the steering wheel. There was nothing tentative about her voice, however, when she said, “I have no choice. I have to go. There’s nothing left for me here. Charlie’s in London doing graduate work, and Susan has her own family to keep her busy. We were never close, anyway. All I have, really, is you.”

Mrs. Pidgin wiped her eyes and rasped a string of curses, all directed at Charles Drummond.

“Don’t be angry with him, Mrs. P. It couldn’t have been easy for him all these years, either. Every time he looked at me, he must’ve been reminded of my mother’s infidelity. Actually, he did more for me than anyone in his position was obligated to do.”

“Ayeh,” Mrs. Pidgin affirmed bitterly. “All those insulting lectures, all that criticism... and the restrictions he imposed! It’s a wonder you didn’t choke on all he did for you.”

Mary Elizabeth shook her head. “He was instilling values, Mrs. P. Punctuality, neatness, frugality. I have no complaints. Just the opposite. I led a privileged life here. Just look at the house where I was raised. I had the best clothes, went to the best schools....”

“Only because he was afraid. If he didn’t give you those things, same as he gave your sister and brother, people might wonder why he’d singled you out. And if there’s one thing your...Charles can’t abide, it’s having folks think anything’s wrong here. He’s the proudest fool I ever met.”

“You’re right. And that’s the reason—one of the reasons—I’m leaving. I don’t want him feeling shamed or unable to hold up his head in town just because I refuse to get married.”

“Just? There’s no ‘just’ about it.”

“Right again. Getting married is hardly a trivial step.” Mary Elizabeth smiled, trying to shift the conversation onto a more cheerful path. “Besides, it’s past time for me to leave the nest. I’m practically ancient, Mrs. P.” But the brightness slid from her voice when she said, “I need my independence. I want to finally be free.”

The two women fell quiet. Outside the motor home, birds chirped noisily in the maples that bordered the property. The foliage looked played out, even a little tired. The calendar might say it was still summer, but the sky was too blue, too dry and clear. Change was in the air.

Finally, the older woman said softly, “You’ll call me when you reach your friend’s, won’t you?”

“Of course. And you won’t tell Charles where I’ve really gone until I tell you it’s safe?”

“Ayeh.” Mrs. Pidgin gazed at her a long, worried moment. “Well, I can’t think of anything else, so maybe we should get on with your packing. Is there much more?”

“Only the rocker from my room and the cat.” Mary Elizabeth rose and the woman followed. But at the door of the RV, Mary Elizabeth turned. “Before I go, I’d like you to know...” She fidgeted self-consciously with the buttons on her jacket. “I mean, what I want to say is...” She swallowed, and then simply wrapped Mrs. Pidgin in a fierce hug. The woman patted her consolingly while tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

“I know. I love you, too, Mary Elizabeth.”

* * *

EVEN THE PHONE BOOTH brought a smile to Pete Mitchell’s eyes. You just didn’t see those things anymore, only the open half-shells that looked like something out of

Star Trek

 and didn’t exactly encourage a guy to linger or say anything personal.

The glass bi-fold door closed with a familiar squeak-thump, recalling hot summer nights, cheap after-shave, and dialing Sue Ellen Carlisle’s number while friends seren