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"Tell her to hurry," called Jory behind me, sounding more like his old self. "I'm famished. And the sight of that fire burning makes me want her very badly."

With many trepidations I headed for Melodie's room, knowing I was going to face her down with what I'd found out--and when I was finished, I might very well have driven her straight into Bart's ready arms. That was the chance I took.

One brother would win.

The other would lose.

And I wanted them both to win.

Melodies Betrayal

. Softly I rapped on Melodie's door. I could hear faintly through the heavy wood the music from Swan Lake. She must have had it playing very loud, or else I wouldn't be hearing it at all. I knocked again. She didn't respond. This time when she didn't answer I opened her door and stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind me. Her room was messy with clothes dropped on the floor; cosmetics littered the dressing room table. "Melodie, where are you?"

Her bathroom was empty. Oh, damn! She'd gone to Bart. In a flash I was off and running back to Bart's wing. On his door I banged furiously. "Bart, Melodie . . . you can't do this to Jory."

They weren't there.

I flew down the back stairs, heading for the dining room, half expecting they'd start dinner without Chris and me. Trevor was setting the table for two, measuring with his eye the distance of the plate from the edge of the table with such precision it was as if he used a ruler. I slowed down to walk into the dining room. "Trevor, have you seen my second son?"

"Oh, yes, my lady," he said in his polite British way, beginning to lay out the silver flatware. "Mr. Foxworth and Mrs. Marquet just left to eat in a restaurant. Mr. Foxworth requested that I tell you he'd be back . . . soon."

"What did he really say, Trevor?" I asked, feeling sick at heart.

"My lady, Mr. Foxworth was just a wee bit drunk. Not too drunk, so don't worry about the rain and accidents. I'm sure he can control the car, and Mrs. Marquet will be just fine. It's a lovely night for driving if you like rain."

I hurried on toward the garage, hoping to be in time to stop them. Too late! And it was just as I'd feared. Bart had taken Melodie in his small, fast, sports car, the red Jaguar.

My steps were snail-like as I headed back up the stairs. Jory was glowing from the champagne he'd sipped as he waited. Chris had gone on to our room to change for dinner.

"Where is my wife?" asked Jory, seated at the small table Henry and Trevor had carried up. Fresh flowers from our greenhouse centered the table, and with the champagne cooling in a silver ice bucket the atmosphere was festive and seductive, especially with the log fire burning to chase away the damp chill. Jory looked very much like himself with his legs hidden, and the chair he'd hated was hardly noticeable.

Should I make up a lie this time, as I had before?

All the brightness in his eyes faded. "So she's not coming," he said in a flat way. "She never comes here anymore--at least not inside the room. She lingers in the doorway and speaks to me from a distance." His husky voice cracked, then broke entirely and he was crying.

"I'm trying, Mom, really trying to accept this and not be bitter. But when I see what's happening between me and my wife, I come apart inside. I know what she's thinking eyen when she says nothing. I'm not a real man anymore, and she doesn't know how to cope with that."

I fell upon my knees at his side and took him into my arms. "She'll learn, Jory, she'll learn. We all have to learn how to' cope with what can't be helped. Give her time. Wait until after the baby comes. She'll change. I promise she'll change. You will have given her your child. There's nothing like a baby of your own to hold in your arms to put joy in your heart. The sweetness of a baby, the thrill of having one small, tiny bit of humanity entirely dependent on you to shape and mold. Jory, just you'wait and see how Melodie changes."

His tears had stopped, but the anguish in his eyes stayed.

"I don't know if I can wait," he whispered hoarsely. "When there are others around to see, I smile and act content. But I'm thinking all the time about putting an end to this and setting Melodie free of all obligations. It's not fair to expect her to stay on. I'm going to tell her tonight that she can go if she wants, or she can stay until after the baby is born and then leave, and file for divorce. I won't contest."

"No, Jory!" I flared. "Say nothing to upset her more--just give her time. Let her adjust. The baby will help her adjust."

"But, Mom, I don't know if I can live through to the end now. I think all the time about suicide. I think of my father and wish I had the courage to do what he did."

"No, darling, hang on. You'll never be alone."

Chris and I sat down at the small table to keep him company. He didn't speak a dozen words during the meal.

At bedtime, I stealthily put away all the razors and everything with which he could harm himself. I slept on the couch in his room that night, fearful he was so despondent he might try to end his life just to give Melodie freedom to leave without guilt. His moans reached me even as I dreamed.

"Mel . . . my legs ache!" he cried out in his sleep. I got up to comfort him. He wakened and stared at me in a disoriented way. "Every night my back and my legs ache," he answered sleepily in reply to my questions. "I don't need sympathy for my phantom pains. I just want a full night's rest."

All through the night he writhed in agony. The legs that he couldn't feel during the day by night tormented him with constant pain. The lower part of his back stabbed him with repeated jabs.

"Why do I feel pain at night, when I feel nothing during the day?" he cried out, sweat pouring down his face, sticking his pajama jacket to his chest. "I still wish I had the nerve my father did--that would solve all our problems!"