Marcus caught the first morning train to Portsmouth. He’d spent the previous night wrestling with the feelings of tenderness and possessiveness he’d had for Amanda while he picked the strands of her hair from that tree. He wondered where their relationship was headed, but the thought left him when he arrived at the factory and noticed that Jerzy Heiner was already at work.
“I’m planning to ask for an hour off this afternoon,” Jerzy explained. “Oh, yeah,” he said, as though in afterthought, “you aren’t planning to sell the factory, are you?” Marcus stopped raising the window, and turned toward his trusted small-strings expert.
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“A man came here just after you left yesterday asking about inventory, profit, outstanding debt and a lot of other things that I told him were none of his business. If you aren’t planning to sell, how’d he get the nerve?”
“Beats me. But I’ll check on it. Let me know if you see him around.” Marcus could hardly wait for his bank to open. He called Allen Baldridge, the president, and learned that it was the bank’s policy to list large mortgages on commercial property in the hope of unloading them if the debtor defaulted. The bank had already had several offers for Marcus’ mortgage, but had refused in view of its long relationship with the Hickson family. However, in the event of a default, the bank would sell to the highest bidder.
Marcus reflected on that news for a while after hanging up. His father and the man with whom he’d just spoken had been roommates at Morehouse College and as tight as peas in a pod. When you had your hand out, he recalled, you didn’t have friends in high places, only some big shots you’d once known who now considered themselves your superior. He’d show them; he’d work that much harder to repay that bank loan. It wouldn’t be without a struggle, and he hadn’t thought it would. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of debt plus what he considered exorbitant interest was an enormous short-term load for any small business. His stomach tightened with uneasiness. He had mortgaged his house and his business, sold his car, Steinway and Stradivarius, given up his credit cards and left himself with nothing but his clothes and his tools. In the end, he’d given up his freedom. But if Amy walked again, he’d have no regrets. He realized for the first time that he could easily lose the fruits of twelve years’ hard work. Everything he had.
Three hours later, emotionally drained from grappling with the problems he faced, he put the felt on the last hammer of a concert grand and looked over at an employee working near him. “Let’s go out for coffee,” he said to the man. “If you feel as old as I do right now, you can use a pick-me-up, too.” Surprised that his boss would take a mid-morning break, the man raised both eyebrows and started for the door.
Amanda awoke early the next morning to discover that Marcus had already left. She decided that he’d probably done that to prevent her from giving him breakfast, and that was just as well. When he was untangling her hair, he had suggested that she might have tried to seduce him, and she couldn’t help laughing at the idea, wishing she knew how. He had been the seducer, and she figured that if he were as clever as he seemed, he’d know that. She dressed in a navy, ruffled skirt and pink peasant blouse and went to the hospital. Anyone who knew her situation would consider her reckless, but she was beyond caring. After reading the second chapter of a novel to a patient with impaired vision, she made her way to the children’s ward, where she identified herself as a volunteer—which she was—and asked directions to Amy’s room. She found the child looking listlessly out of the window, ignoring the other children in the four-bed room. She gave Amy a cone of vanilla ice cream that she’d gotten from the vending machine and asked her whether she’d like to read some stories. To her surprise, the child’s eyes sparkled excitedly at the prospect of reading stories. Amanda read Winnie the Pooh to her, talked with her for a bit and promised a return visit. She had liked Amy, an attractive, bright child, and wanted to see more of her, but she decided not to tell Marcus that she had met his daughter.
Walking down State Street later, after having bought her first maternity clothes, she passed a toy store and couldn’t resist the yellow floppy-eared bunny that gazed beady-eyed at her from the window. Amy hadn’t had a single toy, so she bought it for her, ignoring the warning that sounded from both her conscience and her common sense. She walked briskly up State Street, humming an old tune, feeling happy and even lighthearted, in anticipation of her Sunday visit with Amy while Marcus worked at his factory in Portsmouth.
“Morning, Sam. Lovely Saturday morning, isn’t it?” She hadn’t seen him for weeks and had wondered about him. She couldn’t imagine State Street without Sam with his archaic four-wheel trash cart, battered hat and highly polished, though worn shoes. She stopped, as always, to greet him, and his black, weathered face immediately became wreathed in smiles.
“Mighty glad to see you feeling better, Miss Amanda.” Sam always called her “Miss Amanda,” which was the Southern custom even if a woman was married. He leaned against his old trash cart and peered at her. “Last time I see’d you, you was a mite troubled. I said prayers for whatever it was that was bothering you.”
Deeply moved at his caring, Amanda reached out to touch his bony shoulder and then, on impulse, leaned over and brushed a kiss on his unshaven cheek. “Oh, Sam, I was troubled, but your prayers must have worked.” It was rare that anyone stopped to talk with Sam, and she realized what her brief greetings meant to him. She told the stunned, happy old man, “Since I last saw you I got married. My name’s Hickson now, and next year I’m going to be principal of the junior high school. Thanks for the prayers.” She waved him goodbye as he ducked his head, but not quickly enough to prevent her seeing the old man’s tears.
Amanda looked at her watch. Marcus wouldn’t be back in Caution Point for another four hours, so she could go back to the hospital and take Amy the bunny. She had enjoyed the little girl’s enthusiasm and warmth and couldn’t wait to see her expressions of delight when she gave her the stuffed animal. She went directly to the child’s room and found her in a deep discussion with Winnie the Pooh, lecturing the imaginary little bear about his bad habit of sticking his nose in honey. Amanda couldn’t resist a laugh, and she thought her heart would burst when Amy’s face blossomed in smiles at the sight of her.
“Lady! I thought you were coming tomorrow.” She walked over to the bed, and when Amy raised both arms to her, leaned over and hugged her.
“What’s in that package, Lady?” Precocious little thing, aren’t you, Amanda mused. She handed her the package, sat down in the nearby chair and watched in awe at the child’s patience; in all her years as a teacher, she’d never known a child to unwrap a package with such care. She supposed pain would do that to a child, but this one showed no ill effects of her ordeal; bright, happy and bubbling with energy, Amy had the personality of a child who had known deep love and caring and who expected to be loved. If anyone knew how much Marcus loved his child, she did. Excitement that dissolved into shivers coursed through her at the memory of his passion and, though she fought the image, in her mind’s eye, she saw him as a lover. Her lover. She forced her attention to the little girl, hoping to banish Marcus from her thoughts, but she could have saved herself the trouble. Amy was Marcus incarnate, with the same curly black hair and honey-brown eyes.
“Lady! Lady! Is it mine? I love him. I love him.” Her squeals brought a nurse running to the room. In answer to Amy’s question, the nurse assured the child that she could keep the bunny. Amanda didn’t doubt the difficulty the nurse would have had if she hadn’t allowed it.
“Thanks,” Amy said, wearing the famous Hickson smile. “I’m going to name him Peter.” Amanda left immediately, in spite of Amy’s pleading; she couldn’t risk Marcus’ arriving early and finding her there.
Marcus stared unseeing at the console in front of him. He had been working on that piano for hours, and he might as well have been in Caution Point; he