Thursday, November 26, 1987

11:08 a.m.

"Amanda, you've been on your feet all morning. Sit down before you fall down."

Evading Mother's pointed stare, I dumped an assortment of jeans and t-shirts into the washing machine. "I don't have time to sit down. I've got to finish the laundry so the boys have something clean to wear. In case you've forgotten, we're expecting a houseful of guests for Thanksgiving dinner in a few hours."

"Of course I haven't forgotten." She glared at me over the top of her glasses. "I'm the one who's been up since the crack of dawn wrestling with that twenty-four pound turkey."

I added a cup of detergent to the wash water. When Mother took that tone, it usually meant a lecture was forthcoming. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized I more than deserved one; I'd been spoiling for a fight all morning.

Mother didn't let me down. "You know, Amanda," she started in right on cue, "why you volunteered to host this party today, I'll never know. Especially after that stunt Joe pulled last month."

"That's exactly why I'm having them over. To prove to the boys I'm not mad at Joe. The last thing they need right now is to feel that they're in a tug of war with their parents."

"Too bad Joe didn't consider that before he opened his big mouth. I don't fault your logic, Amanda, just your methods. They're Carrie's family. She should do it."

I dropped the lid and yanked the knob to the "on" position. "I'd rather meet them here on my own turf. Besides, Carrie has her hands full with the wedding on Saturday."

"Yes, I'm perfectly aware of that, too."

I groaned. "I think I hear a 'but' coming in there somewhere."

"No, not at all." She took the empty basket from my hands and placed it under the laundry tub. "I certainly have no intention of telling you how to run your life. You know it's not my way. If you want to pretend we're all one, big happy family and attend your ex-husband's wedding, you go right ahead. I won't even say 'I told you so' after you collapse from the stress."

"I feel fine, Mother. Okay, so I'm a little tired," my protest was all but swallowed up in a yawn, "and maybe I am a little on the thin side, but Dr. Goodman said the baby and I are perfectly healthy and—"

"I know what Dr. Goodman said." Mother adopted a pricklier tone. "I was present at your last appointment. You remember . . . the one where he specifically ordered you to slow down?"

"I'll slow down as soon as Lee comes home." The words came out more harshly than I'd intended. Ignoring the look on my mother's face, I pushed past her into the kitchen without a word.

A pile of leftover breakfast dishes greeted me. Scowling, I rolled up my sleeves, turned the water on full-blast and squirted a generous stream of Palmolive into the sink. The bubbles immediately began to swirl, overflowing the basin to drip down the cabinet onto the floor.

"Damn it, where is Phillip, anyway?" Grabbing the nearest dish towel, I squatted down and dabbed awkwardly at the small puddles. "The breakfast dishes are supposed to be his job this week."

Firm hands grabbed me under the arm and tugged me to my feet. Mother calmly shut off the water I'd left running then ordered, in a tone that brooked no contradiction, "Sit down, Amanda. Right now."

Too exhausted to argue, I plodded to the kitchen table and lowered myself into a chair. "Phillip really should be doing that," I ventured in a small voice as she began to mop the wet floor.

"Phillip is still on the upstairs phone talking to Linda." Mother pursed her lips in disapproval, whether over Phillip's behavior or mine, I wasn't quite sure.

"I guess I'm going to have to talk to him about how much time he's spending with that girl." I licked my fingertip and jabbed at the toast crumbs scattered across the tabletop. "This relationship is getting entirely too serious."

"Why not let him enjoy the first bloom of love for a little while longer? I remember how you and Bobby Johnson carried on when you were that age—talk, talk, talk, morning, noon and night. At least it's keeping his mind off . . ." Mother put more energy into her mopping. "How much trouble can they get into, anyway? They're only fourteen."

Now was probably not the time to tell her about that big backseat in Mr. Johnson's Lincoln. And my shenanigans paled in comparison to Lee and a certain general's daughter. While I felt fairly confident that Phillip's behavior was more in line with mine, he wouldn't stay innocent forever. I didn't relish having to cope with his burgeoning adolescent hormones on my own. And though I knew I could rely on Joe in a pinch, I wasn't feeling especially friendly toward him at the moment.

But I couldn't worry about that now. Thanks to my obsessive need to keep the peace, we were about to be invaded by a horde of new "relatives." Unfortunately, the adrenaline that had fueled my cleaning frenzy all morning had evaporated, leaving a bone-aching weariness in its wake. Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the table and buried my face in my hands.

"Here, darling, drink this." Mother materialized at my side and pressed a steaming cup into my hands. "It will perk you up again in no time."

I swallowed obediently. As the hot tea warmed me, I did begin to feel more like myself again. "I'm sorry," I murmured, feeling guilty for taking my bad mood out on her. "I don't know how you put up with me."

Mother tucked my hair behind my ear, the way she used to do when I was a girl. "I know the pressure you've been under, Amanda. I don't mean to nag you. I'm just worried, that's all. About you and the baby." She patted the rounded bulge concealed beneath my sweatshirt. "I have a vested interest in this little one, you know."

"I know you do. And I really appreciate your support, even if I don't always show it."

"You're my daughter, darling, and a daughter always has a special place in her mother's heart." Her lips curved up in a secret smile. "Maybe, if you're lucky, you'll discover that for yourself."

"Maybe." I hadn't given the matter too much thought up until now. When I'd had the amnio last month, Dr. Goodman had asked if I wanted to know the baby's sex, but I'd declined. It hadn't seemed right somehow to have even more knowledge about a baby Lee knew nothing about at all. Suddenly, though, the idea of a daughter sounded kind of nice.

Mother's smile grew wider. "Of course, another boy would be okay, too."

It would be more than okay. A little boy with his father's eyes . . . nice eyes, beautiful eyes, eyes that had drawn me to him even when he'd been a total stranger . . . eyes I couldn't wait to gaze into again. I let out a quick breath. Thinking like that was treading on shaky ground.

"But none of that is important, darling." Mother made her point with a gentle squeeze of my shoulders. "It's getting that little baby here, safe and healthy, that really matters. So you have to promise to start taking better care of yourself."

"Don't worry. I'm going to be fine, Mother. As soon as . . ."

I started to say "as soon as Lee comes home," but I couldn't get the words out this time. That catchphrase had become my mantra since my husband had gone missing. I repeated it out loud each morning as I drove to the Agency, murmured it silently as I lectured on the finer points of tactical surveillance, and whispered it to the night shadows as, unable to sleep, I paced the floor of what should have been our bedroom.

But it didn't help. There was nothing magical about those words, they held no special power. They couldn't bring my husband back.

A low moan rose up out of my throat. "Oh, Mother, what am I going to do? I can't stop thinking . . . if this baby . . . and then there's Joe's nonsense about the boys . . . and if something's happened . . ."

Mother seemed to understand; she gently stroked my hair again. "Hush now. The baby is just fine, and those boys aren't going anywhere. As for Lee, you don't know for certain that something's happened to him. What does Mr. Melrose say?"

"That communication in that part of the world is difficult at best. But it's been twenty-seven days now. . ." I shook my head. Though Billy refused to actually say it, we were both professionals; we could interpret the continued silence from Beirut all too accurately.

Mother puffed out her chest and drew herself up to her full height. "Amanda Stetson, I've never seen you give up on anything you cared about before, and I won't stand for it now, do you hear? Until you know something definite, you keep on believing that your husband is coming home."

The sternly loving words were exactly what I needed to hear. Her eyes, so full of hope, seemed to impart some of their confidence to me, and I turned to her with the beginnings of a smile.

Mother nodded her approval. "Now, Missy, you head right up those stairs and change your clothes. What kind of impression will we make on Joe's new family if you greet them in those old sweats?"