From Here to There Read online

  "How terribly considerate," Helene's father muttered under his breath.

  "Well, are you or are you not going to tell us why you're here?" her mother demanded.

  "Do you have any wine?" Helene asked, looking toward the cabinet. Phillip's whiskey might not have been such a bad idea after all.

  Her father frowned but poured her a glass, then looked expectantly at her.

  She hoped to find a little courage in the ruby liquid. "I've left Phillip," she said finally when she could think of no easier words.

  "Left him?" her mother echoed. "What on earth are you talking about? You just married him."

  "It was a mistake."

  "A mistake?" Her father frowned, obviously trying to make sense out of the words and lost somewhere back around hello. “What did he do? He didn’t hit you did he?”

  "Phillip didn’t do anything. I just don't love him. I can't be the sort of wife he needs. I don't want to be the sort of wife he needs." She knew they would never understand, but she had to try.

  "Lord, Helene," her father said, slapping his forehead, "couldn't you have figured that out before the wedding. How's this going to look?"

  That seemed to be everyone's first concern. "Unpleasant," she admitted, "but there's nothing I can do about that now. I will return everyone’s gifts, of course. I'm sorry for hurting you, but I can't live a lie and that's what staying married to Phillip would have meant."

  "This is as insane as anything I’ve heard of." Her father looked around the room as though possibly the answer for the insanity that had struck his family might be found in a corner or in a painting.

  Their chef, Georgie, entered, a tray with coffee pot and cups on it. When she saw Helene, she nearly dropped everything, "What are you doing here?" she asked, as though no one before her might have thought to ask the question.

  "Never mind that, Georgie," Helene's mother said with a mournful sigh. "Could you get us some tea?"

  "First you want coffee and sandwiches. Now tea." She threw up her hands. "You know we have an agreement. No cooking after. Well I was supposed to be off-duty half hour ago." Georgie looked at Helene with questioning eyes.

  "Well, excuse me," Helene's mother grumbled, "but just exactly who's the cook and who's the mistress around here?"

  "I am no man's slave," Georgie retorted, lifting her head proudly, her eyes narrowed as she glared at Helene's mother. "If you don't like my work, you can fire me."

  "No, I didn't mean that." Helene's mother's voice became instantly placating. "Forget the tea. You know we love your work."

  Georgie nodded and then looked again at Helene. "You don't look so good."

  "Thanks," Helene said, feeling as brittle as a piece of glass.

  "Maybe I will make you some tea. You look like you could use it." The cook walked out mumbling to herself.

  "If it only weren't so difficult to find reliable help," Helene's mother sighed. "I would fire her. I swear I would."

  Helene laughed, almost amused despite her upset. "You would not. Georgie's been with us since I was seven. Twenty years and you know you wouldn't have her any other way. Half the time you spoil her unmercifully."

  "It's the only way to keep good help. You can't believe the competition among my friends for reliable servants. Ernestine would kill to get the chance to hire Georgie."

  "The trials of the rich," Uncle Amos inserted with a grin as he bit into a sandwich.

  "All right, young lady," her father said, his glare returning to Helene. "I would like a full explanation. What have you done?"

  "I've told Phillip that I'll file for an annulment and I think we should tell everyone the whole thing is my fault because that's the simple truth. I never should have agreed to marry him, and I understand how much pain I’ve caused you all, but I can't undo that."

  "A divorce and now an annulment. This is too much for one day," her mother cried, dabbing at her eyes with a linen handkerchief. "I don't understand what's happening to us all. Phillip is a perfectly marvelous man. I can't believe you would jilt him."

  "I think the word is passé, Mother. The modern thing it to say we simply don't suit."

  "That might have been true a month ago or yesterday," her father snapped, rubbing his neck distractedly, "but today I think you'll have to settle for jilted." He looked up abruptly. "Are you sure he didn’t hit you? If he did, I'll go over there and--"

  "He did not hit me. I can't explain any of this to you. It's just a bad combination. We don't suit. It's that simple. I'm unsure of who I am. How can I be married?"

  “Helene, that sounded absolutely mad,” her mother said with a grimace as she poured herself a glass of wine.

  Helene wished she had the words to explain all she was thinking, words that would help her parents understand how deep this problem went in her life. She found herself questioning her strength of character, her willingness to be led into a marriage she had known inherently was wrong. To bring all that up would be to make it sound as though she was criticizing them for the pressure they'd brought onto her and even their own example of having chosen and stayed in a marriage of convenience rather than seeking help to remake their relationship into something more solid or even getting a divorce years earlier.

  "You did marry him," her father reminded her as if the point wasn't obvious.

  “You can’t be pregnant, can you?” her mother asked taking a big gulp of the wine.

  “Hardly. There couldn’t be an annulment if I was pregnant, could there?” Helene took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

  "Oh dear Lord," her mother said, dabbing at her eyes again and blowing her nose daintily.

  "He's gay, isn't he?" her father retorted. "That's it, and the bloody bounder didn't have the guts to tell you beforehand."

  "Of course not!" Helene was beginning to feel exasperated with the lot of them. "There is nothing wrong with Phillip. He's perfect. Except--" Angry now, she snapped, "He can't chop wood, fix a tractor, birth a calf, or ride a range. He hasn't got calluses on his hands, and his muscles come from a gymnasium, not real work." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Both parents were looking at her as though if they had wondered before, now they were absolutely sure. She'd lost her mind.

  Her mother scrunched up her face. "I didn't hear her say that. Tell me I didn't hear that!"

  Her father began a string of obscenities that ended with something only mildly profane but had worked its way through several Helene had only recently heard from Phillip's lips. Obviously she was doing nothing for the self-control of the men around her.

  When her father had spewed out his anger at her, he turned on Uncle Amos. "This is your fault. You think I don't know where she got those romantic ideas!"

  “Romantic ideas?” Amos laughed with amazement. "My fault? How do you figure that?"

  "She goes to your ranch. Gets her head filled with a lot of Old West malarkey, then can't come back here and deal with the real world."

  "So, Massachusetts is the real world," Amos said shaking his head and laughing, "and the ranch ain't!"

  Ignoring Amos, Helene's father continued in his tirade, stalking around the dining room. "First you dragged my sister out there. Now you want my daughter. Well, you can't have her."

  "I don't remember trying to steal her." Amos raised his hands in mock defense. "But if she wants to come out to me, that's for her to decide. This whole thing is getting out of hand. You and Flo have been squabbling. Your daughter is so tired she can't see straight. Let her go to bed. This'll make better sense to all of you in the morning."

  "The blue bird of happiness strikes again," Helene's father said with a sneer.

  "I didn't say that," Uncle Amos snapped back, "but a little looking ahead right now might make everybody around here happier."

  Helene tried to smile at him but the tears were too close to the surface to make her attempt successful. "Would you walk me to my room?" she asked, reaching out a hand to her uncle. "That is," she looked back at her fath
er and then her mother, "if I can stay here."

  "Of course you can stay here," her mother retorted. "Don't be melodramatic."

  Helene smiled at her. "Oh, is that just reserved for the older generation?" and made a quick escape before the words could rebound against her.

  In the hall Georgie stopped in front of them. "I knew if I made tea, nobody would drink it," she said with a disgusted look down at the tray.

  Uncle Amos took the tray that also included sandwiches and followed Helene up the curved staircase to the upper level of the mansion.

  At her bedroom door, Helene smiled back at him. "I suppose I got you in more trouble by asking you up here."

  "You think I give a dang about that?" Amos asked, grinning, his thinning gray hair mussed by several forays of his hands through it.

  "I know you don't, but--" She pressed her lips together and opened the door to her bedroom. The room was lavish, gold satin spread, thick white rug, white antique furniture, original oil paintings on the walls. Helene took the tray and sat it on a stand by her bed.

  Uncle Amos accepted a cup of tea from her, his gaze steadily met her gaze. "You really did it this time," he said with a grin.

  "I am so sorry." She realized she was hungry and took one of the sandwich halves. "When will I learn to think before I leap? I've made everybody mad at me," she said in when she had finished it off.

  "Phillip too, I don’t doubt," he said, sipping his tea.

  "He was furious."

  "Didn't hit you though?"

  "That isn't Phillip's style," she said with a deep breath. She walked to her window and stared out at the dark grounds below. "I've never seen him like that though. Of course, he wasn't prepared for it, and Phillip likes to be prepared for everything."

  "You two didn't court long, did you?"

  "I'd known him, sort of distantly, but it was only four months ago that he asked me out for the first time. In a month, he was talking marriage. Another month and I agreed."

  "Why?'

  She smiled sadly. "He's powerful, rich... On the surface, Phillip has everything a woman could want."

  "Not enough for you though?"

  Helene returned to the bed and picked up her cup of tea. "I was stupid and got carried away with everything, the excitement of the wedding, of marrying such a prized catch. This week, it was like I woke up and wondered why I'd agreed to marry a man I barely knew. Do you know I don't even know where his parents are, where he came from, nothing about him that really matters. What made me let myself be maneuvered into marrying a man I don't even really like?" She hesitated only a moment before she added fiercely, "I won't have a marriage like my parents."

  "You knew about their situation before today," Amos said.

  "Well I didn’t imagine they’d be talking divorce the same day I got married, but how could I not realize their marriage was troubled at the best?" Helene said, staring across the room to a romantic, landscape painting that she'd always hated. "They aren't together unless they have to be. Separate vacations for as many years as I can remember. Daddy's little friends..." She let out a gusty breath. "I don't know why Mother's put up with it. Except all she can think about is how things look. And I guess divorce doesn't look good." She wriggled her nose. "I doubt annulment is going to look too good either."

  "It's your life."

  "There came a moment when I realized I didn’t know what life was about and never would find out if I became Phillip’s wife. I just saw that too late."

  "Did you know your dad wants a divorce?"

  Helene said nothing for a moment. "I heard the end of the argument. The only surprising thing is he waited so long. I guess he thought he’d gotten the bird out of the nest... or something like that. I don't remember them ever being happy."

  "I think they were in the beginning," he said, taking a swig of his tea, "but there's a lot of pressures. You know how things are."

  "I don’t. Things weren’t that way for you and Aunt Rochelle. You were happy."

  Uncle Amos smiled at her. “You never really know somebody else’s marriage, girl.”

  “You weren’t happy?”

  “Of course, we were most of the time, but we had our hard times too. There’s nothing we had that you couldn’t have with Phil."

  "Handsome, successful, business genius Phillip Drummond. No. I couldn’t, but I feel awful about what I did to him." She shook her head. "I honestly didn't think it would make that much difference to him. I thought I was just an addition to his portfolio... I don't think he loves me. I don't understand though why he reacted as he did."

  Amos smiled. "Maybe male pride?"

  Helene smiled tearily. "Probably. He... was different today. I mean, he'd kissed me before but today being angry and all... it was different." She flushed, unable to explain her reaction to Phillip's kisses. It was the first time she'd thought of Phillip as a flesh and blood man, capable of passion and feeling, the first time she'd realized she would be hurting him by her actions.

  "I don't want to settle for crumbs, like my mother, because I'm afraid to ask for more."

  "Your mother has everything a woman could want."

  "Materially maybe. Otherwise? Most women want a man who loves them, one who can be trusted, one who wants to be with them. I know I certainly don't want to come home someday and find the man I married making love to some other woman." She stopped and looked up at her uncle. "The way I found my father."

  Uncle Amos swore succinctly.

  "I... was fourteen. If I'd had any illusions by then, it would have been the end of them."

  "You never told your mother?"

  "What would have been the point? Besides she had to know. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it," she said bitterly. "I have to believe she pretended she didn't because she didn't want the scandal, didn't want to give up her comfortable lifestyle."

  "Well you sure nailed them today, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean to."

  “Maybe not but you got both them and Phillip with one swipe.”

  “I never thought of it that way. I’m sorry for that, for all of it, but I don’t want that kind of life. I want a man who'd never do something like that to me."

  "So you don't trust Phil?"

  "I don't know him well enough to trust him or not. I don’t even know his moral values. Besides it’s something else. I want a different life, one with different priorities. I want a man who if a disaster strikes won't be counting up the monetary losses but will be taking care of me and any children we might have, dragging us from a flooding stream or protecting us with his own body if need be.” She stopped and sighed. “Yes, I know I sound like a hopeless romantic."

  Amos chuckled. "Might be Phil's more of a man than you know. The world you live in doesn't give a man a lot of chances to play hero."

  "I don't want a hero, Uncle Amos, just a real man like you or Rafe or Emile." She glanced around her. "You know I absolutely hate this room, this house. It's so pretentious, so needlessly big and fussy." She was beginning to feel confused as she didn’t have any reason to think Phillip would want a place like that either. His apartment was nothing like it although he had made all the decisions for what their home would be like. She had reached the end of being able to think.

  She looked at her uncle. "Did you mean it when you said I could come stay with you?"

  "Your dad'll shoot me."

  “So much of my life has been programmed by somebody else. Eastern riding instead of Western, a trip to Europe instead of one to the Grand Canyon. A foreign film when I preferred a comedy. I guess I ought to feel lucky for the luxuries, but I'm suddenly beginning to realize I'm not living my own life. I'm living everybody else's idea of what it should be. I don't want to grow old and realize I missed my chance. I want to do work that matters. I'm not even sure what that's going to be, but I need to find out, and I'd like to start in Montana."

  "I'd like having you. With Emile married and Rafe off rodeoing, the house is plumb lonely, but you kn
ow how your folks are going to feel about this."

  "If it's going to be my life, I have to start sometime, don't I?"

  "I reckon so. What about your job?"

  "I only got my cushy little editing job because the publisher is a friend of my father's. I have to find something that's mine, Uncle Amos. I want my next job to be because I earned it."

  "I doubt any publisher worth their salt would have hired you just because of family."

  She looked at him dubiously. "I was so sure, you of everybody would understand what I'm feeling."

  He looked thoughtfully at her. "I already said you could come, but I want you to know that I don't know how long I can offer you a home at the ranch. I've been having some problems."

  "What kind?" she asked her concern shifting to him and the Rocking H.

  "I don't need to worry you about it. Just I didn't want you to come out figuring I was going to be there forever. I don't know about the future, but... maybe none of us do. So, you come to Montana. Maybe you can find some of those answers you're looking for out there, but, girl, sometimes the best answers are inside us all the time."

  She smiled at him. "Maybe though it's going to take a little digging to work them out, and I can't think of a better place to dig than the Rocking H. How soon can we go?"

  "Whenever you get yourself packed up."

  Helene rose from the bed and stared out into the dark night toward the west. She didn't know how, but somehow she sensed the answers she sought would be found there.

  #

  Sprawled across the sofa, a pair of well worn jeans his only attire, two days growth of beard covering his square jaw, Phillip Drummond looked like anything but the financial mastermind behind an investment counseling and development firm that had grown from nothing to a multimillion dollar operation. His clients would have had little faith that the disheveled looking man could save their failing companies. He looked more like what he had been born to be--a street tough. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a glass of whiskey rested on the glass table in front of him. The modern living room had acquired a look of upheaval that matched the turmoil in the long, lean man who lay morosely staring at the ceiling.