A Convenient Proposal(68)
Arden had wondered if she would have to account for the way she’d broken down at Kathy’s “decor orgy.” She was surprised when none of the Campbell women had brought up the subject.
And Kathy had evidently moved on. “Since you told us about your hearing loss, I’ve wanted to share some thoughts with you. There are programs that provide assistance for partially or completely deaf kids so they can go to regular public schools. You would make a terrific volunteer—an example of what can be accomplished despite this disability.”
Arden tried to be polite. “Thanks, but—”
“Another idea I had was music appreciation classes for children with partial deafness—you could help them experience the sounds to the extent of their ability, help them physically sense the vibrations, that sort of thing. What do you think?”
Arden thought she might faint, because she couldn’t get a decent breath. As Kathy spoke, some kind of weight seemed to have settled in Arden’s chest, compressing her lungs.
In all the months since she’d first heard the word deaf applied to herself, Arden had tried to distance herself from that fact. She’d arranged her life so she didn’t really need to hear to get along. No one spoke to her, the dog didn’t bark—the world could become totally soundless without affecting her in the least.
Then Griff had arrived, bringing with him relationships and conversation and music, damn him. She’d learned to talk to people, to enjoy them, to actually forget the defect that had so diminished her existence.
And now Kathy wanted her to use that flaw? To celebrate her disability as a model of how to cope? To pretend she didn’t wake every morning in despair because she couldn’t hear the birds sing?
“I—I’ll think about it,” she managed to say without screaming. “It’s an…an interesting idea.” She grabbed the check off the table. “I’ll take care of this, but I have to be…somewhere in just a few minutes.” Leaning in, she kissed the air beside Kathy’s cheek. “Take care.”
That was one lesson Griff hadn’t needed to teach her, Arden decided, driving out of Sheridan at a speed considerably over the legal limit.
How to run away.
ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Griff found himself returning to the office from a farm call on the same side of town where the house he’d once owned was located. Out of curiosity, he took the still-familiar turns leading to his former address. He intended just to see the place and how it was being taken care of, and then drive on.
The first change he noted was color—he’d painted the siding a soft yellow and the shutters bright blue, but the new owner had wanted a mellow green with white. Even in winter, he could tell the landscaping had been improved, with trees and shrubs enhancing what had once been a plain grass lawn. But then, he’d planned for Zelda, with her green thumb, to design the plantings after their wedding.
A car sat in the driveway, a silver compact similar to the make Zelda drove. As Griff approached, he realized it wasn’t just similar—it was the exact car Zelda drove. Then he glanced at the mailbox—a bigger and prettier style than the one he’d put up. Lettered on the side was the last name of the residents: McPherson.
Griff slammed on the brakes and stopped the SUV beside the driveway, shut off the engine and stalked to the front door. Pushing the bell with one finger, he didn’t release the pressure.
As the door opened, an irritated woman’s voice said, “I hear you, I hear you. My goodness, what is your—” Zelda stood on the other side of the screen, staring at him. “What do you want?”
At that moment, he saw honest fear in her eyes. Zelda, the girl he’d known since grade school, could actually believe he might hurt her.
His anger leached away. Shoulders slumped, he blew out a breath. “I drove by to see the place, then realized you were living here. I only want to talk, Zelda. Can I come in?”
Because she knew him, she could recognize the change in his feelings. “Sure, Griff. Come on in.”
The living room contained furniture—some of which he recognized from Zelda’s old apartment—and boxes. “We’re still moving stuff in,” she explained, gathering wrapping tissue off a chair so he could sit down.
“You haven’t been living here since…June?”
She sat down on the coffee table, the paper clutched in her lap. “No. I—I couldn’t.”
“I see.” No wonder Al had been so worked up. “I didn’t know the name of the buyer. I just got a check from the lawyer. So I was surprised when I saw the mailbox.”