Read Online MM03 - Saturday Mornings by Peggy Webb - Free Book Online Page B

in places.
    “What in the hell have you done?”
    “You're cussing. I’ve never heard you cuss.”
    “It's cussing time.” He grabbed her other hand. It was the same, battered and bleeding. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”
    “I didn't come here to talk.” Her hands clenched into tight fists. “I don't want to talk.”
    He studied her closely then, examined the bright glazed eyes, noticed the shallow breathing. Discreetly he slid two fingers over her wrist. Her pulse was racing. He was no doctor, but he'd heard enough medical talk from his brother-in-law to guess that Margaret Leigh was close to shock.
    What do you do for somebody in shock? Keep them warm and quiet, he decided. But first he needed to take care of her hands.
    “Wait right here, Margaret Leigh.”
    He put a sofa pillow behind her back and propped her up like a broken doll. All the life seemed to have gone out of her.
    “Where are you going?”
    “To get bandages for your hands.” He stood up, keeping his movements easy and his voice low. “Stay right here. Don't move. I'll be right back.”
    He hurried into his bathroom, gathering what he needed as quickly as possible. When he returned Margaret Leigh was exactly as he had left her, propped on the pillows, one hand on her knee and one lying on the sofa.
    Her eyes flickered when he sat down beside her, but she didn't seem to be seeing him. He cleansed her wounds, then applied antibiotic salve and bandages, handling her as he would a newborn puppy. She was just about as helpless.
    When he had finished, he set the supplies aside and took her hands in his.
    “Margaret Leigh, I don't think you should drive. I'm going to take you home.”
    “No!” She bolted from the sofa and began to pace. “I'm not going home. I can't go back. I don't even have a home. Not anymore. I can't go.... I can't face her.... I can't—”
    “All right. It's okay.” Andrew went to her and pulled her into his arms, pressing her trembling body close against him.
    “There now. Shh. It's all right.” He stroked her back, her hair, her arms, over and over. “You don't have to go. You can stay here. Shh. It's all right now.”
    Gradually she began to relax. With a sigh, she leaned into his embrace.
    “I have an extra bedroom. You can sleep there.”
    She nodded, and he kept up the tender massage. Who did she not want to face? What had happened to make her think she no longer had a home? He approached the subject with caution.
    “Is there anyone you want to call?”
    “No.”
    Her vehement answer shook him. He remembered Saturday night and her request to leave the dance early in order to see about Aunt Bertha. Nothing added up. But it was the wrong time to find answers.
    “It's getting late,” he said. “Why don't we go to bed? Sometimes a good night's sleep lends perspective to problems.”
    She allowed herself to be led to his spare bedroom like a trusting child.
    “I think I have an old T-shirt around here that will do for a nightgown. I’ll be right back.
    He went across the hall and dug in his closet for an oversized T-shirt with a Mississippi State logo, a big maroon bulldog snarling against a white background. At least it used to be white. Age and too many careless washings had turned the shirt a dingy yellow. It wasn't pretty, but it was soft and warm and serviceable.
    When he reentered the bedroom, she was standing exactly where he had left her. She was like a statue. Wherever he placed her, that's where she stayed.
    He held the shirt out to her.
    “Margaret Leigh, here's your nightshirt.” She made absolutely no response. He tossed the shirt onto the bed. “Turn around, sweetheart. I'm going to unzip your dress.”
    She did—slowly, as if she were performing a chore she had almost forgotten how to do. He lowered her zipper and slid her dress down her shoulders. Her skin had the fair and tender look of never having been exposed to the sun. Andrew