Pale and weak, she made her way downstairs. Her knees threatened to buckle at any moment. Though arrows of pain were still shooting between her temples, her head felt light and woozy. She had no idea what to expect when she arrived in the kitchen. The uproar in Ian's room had gone on for several minutes after she'd fled for the bathroom. When it had finally quieted, her mother had knocked on the door.
"Do you need any help, Shay?" she'd asked.
"No."
Celia had taken her at her word. After washing her face in cool water, brushing her teeth, and pulling her hair back with a barrette, Shay had gone to her room to dress. She had heard the other room being vacated as one by one everyone went downstairs.
In the light of day, with her brain not influenced by alcohol, she admitted that her behavior had been utterly childish and inappropriate, and she didn't blame Ian in the least for being furious. He was a minister, after all, and though nothing had happened—not much anyway—he had to live above reproach. His reputation mustn't be tainted in the slightest degree. It was obvious from everything he said and did, by the way he conducted himself, that he was dedicated to his work. What right had she to tamper with his life?
In addition, she suspected that his pride had suffered as much as his conscience. He had been a victim of circumstance, therefore not wholly accountable. But he was also a man who, she guessed, would want to be in charge of any situation, especially those involving women. She'd deprived him of that advantage, and that as much as anything had probably fired his temper.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do to push open the door to the kitchen. But she swallowed her last ounce of pride and went through. The hushed conversation ceased abruptly. The atmosphere was thick with tension. More than anything, she regretted having ruined this weekend for her mother and stepfather.
In the heavy silence she crossed to the coffee pot on the stove. Her hand wasn't quite steady, but she managed to half-fill a mug. She took a tentative sip. After one more she turned to face them.
"I'm sorry. I created a ruckus, and I'm sorry." John wouldn't quite meet her eyes when she addressed him. "I want to apologize for ruining an otherwise delightful weekend." They never need know she'd had a miserable time. "Mom, I'm sorry to have embarrassed you in front of your new family." Looking at a point somewhere off Ian's right shoulder, she said, "It's not her fault that I behaved so badly. All my life she's been trying to make me a lady of some discretion. It's not her failure, but my own."
"Shay, dear." Her mother jumped to her feet and embraced her. "I love you just the way you are. Don't ever feel you have to apologize for who you are. It's just that sometimes you act rashly and irresponsibly."
"Yes, I do."
She patted her mother's hand and urged her to sit back down at the table. "Reverend Douglas, Ian, I had too much wine after you went up to bed. What seemed like a fantastic practical joke last night…"
Her voice trailed off lamely, and for the first time she looked fully at him. She was shocked to see neither censure on his face nor anger. Nothing really, except a faint light glowing in his blue eyes. What it meant she didn't know.
"I overreacted and behaved badly," he said tersely. "What happened last night was your fault. What happened this morning was mine," he added in a softer tone. "I kissed you while I was dreaming. I'm sorry to have taken advantage."
Scalding tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at him in wonder. He was taking the blame for their lovemaking—and there was nothing else to call it—on himself. Why, when he'd ridiculed her all weekend, was he now forgiving her so generously? Her eyes probed the depths of his. Could she detect understanding there, or was it simply that she wanted so badly to see it?
He pushed back his chair. "I need to go if I'm to get to church before the first hymn," he said, grinning at John and Celia, who seemed vastly relieved that whatever had transpired between their children had been resolved.
Shay noted then that he was dressed in a dark gray three-piece suit with a white shirt and a tastefully dotted tie. His suitcase was standing just inside the back door.
"Dad, it was great. Sorry I won't be here to eat the fish you and Celia caught yesterday."
"Next time," John said, hugging his son unself
consciously and thumping him proudly on the back.
"Celia," Ian said, taking Shay's mother in his arms for a fierce hug. "You're good for the old man," he said, teasing. "Don't let him take you for granted." He kissed her noisily on the cheek.
"Shay." Just the sound of her name coming from his mouth stopped her heart momentarily, then sent it jumping to her throat. "It was a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand, and mechanically she reached for it and pumped it twice before letting it go.
He turned away and went to the door, leaning down to pick up his suitcase. She had an overwhelming compulsion to run to him and throw herself into his arms. But, of course, she didn't. The weekend was over. They'd rarely see each other again, if at all.
"Drive carefully," Ian's father called to him as they waved good-bye.
Once he was out of sight, Celia and John turned back into the kitchen. Celia's smile collapsed when she saw Shay leaning against the countertop. "Shay, are you still ill?"
Shay shook her head absently and forced her feet to move. They seemed cemented to the floor. "No, just a little shaky. I think I'll go upstairs and lie down for a while. Then I need to be on my way."
She left about noon, after her mother had forced her to eat a scrambled egg and a slice of dry toast, and drink two cups of tea sweetened with honey.
During the drive home, Shay tried to diagnose her ailment, but couldn't. It was more than a hangover. Suddenly she didn't care about anything. Living seemed to be too much trouble to bother with. It required too much energy. Often it inflicted pain. The possibility that Ian Douglas had something to do with her malady flickered on the outskirts of her mind, but she refused to contemplate that thought further.
She returned to work, having convinced herself that the weekend rest in the country had done her a world of good. She didn't have any modeling jobs lined up, so with a burst of enthusiasm, she threw herself into her work at the gallery.
Hans Vandiveer, a wisp of a man with prissy manners and a pointed goatee, was pleased. "Watch out or I may turn all the difficult-to-please customers over to you," he warned her, wagging a slender finger in her face.