Adversaries and Lovers (4 page)

They entered a spacious room supported by beams that converged in a high peak. Triangular panes of frosted glass, set between the beams overhead, allowed soft light to filter into the room. The place was a fascinating mélange of rustic wood, concrete tile floors with throw rugs, and assorted books in arbitrary stacks. But it was the craftsmanship that stood out. A hodgepodge of old windows had been tediously restored and framed in the walls like works of art. And fanciful wood carvings of gnomes and gargoyles peaked out from crooks and crannies.

The place was truly remarkable.

Ben patted one of the massive beams. "These came from the old Cougar Canyon Bridge. They were scheduled for burning when I rescued them. I floated them downriver, notched them with a chain saw and pegged them together."

Kate’s eyes darted from the wrinkled, smiling face of an elderly gargoyle to that of a youthful, quirky elf. "And the carvings?"

"I did them before I built the house," Ben said. "You might say I built the house for them. They're long-time friends."

When Kate glanced back, she found Ben staring at her, eyes sober, his expression unsettling. "It looks like a lot of work," was all she could think to say.

He shrugged. "Not work. A cure-all. Make yourself at home while I crack open the wine and heat the lunch."

Kate looked around for a place to sit and saw an oak-framed futon. Its tufted mattress was unfolded into a double bed and two plump pillows awaited two occupants. She eyed the cozy set-up, realizing how gullible she'd been. Like a trusting fool, she'd accompanied her seducer to his lair. And on the back of a motorcycle, no less! Her only escape was on foot. A long trek home. She folded her arms. "So, this is the spider's parlor," she mused. "And I, naive little fly that I am, followed him right into his web."

Ben let out a chuckle and walked over to the futon. "A prudent spider prepares a soft place to land," he said, "especially when the fly he hopes to trap knows karate." He folded the mattress into a couch. "Now relax. I have no designs on you. Yet."

Over a lunch of beef stroganoff, crusty French bread and tossed green salad, and after downing a goblet of Hearty Burgundy, Kate decided to launch into her crusade on behalf of the Sellwood Action Committee. Having seen Ben's house, and knowing his personal involvement in its construction, she had the perfect opening. After complimenting him on the lunch, she said, offhandedly, "Your house is really wonderful. You've put so much work into it you must feel very attached to it. I imagine it would be difficult to lose it, for whatever reason."

Ben tipped his wine goblet toward her. "Good try."

Kate shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"

"Your tactic. It was commendable."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kate said. "I was commenting on your house."

Ben's mouth curved in a wry smile. "My house is an agglomeration of discarded junk. Why should I feel attached to it?"

Kate felt nonplused. He was toying with her and enjoying it. "Most people feel attached to houses they build with their own hands." She pointed to his cook stove, with its elongated iron body, balanced on one large cylindrical iron leg. "Take that thing for example."

"There you go with your thing fetish again," Ben said. "That's my cook stove, a welded monstrosity made from an iron grate, a discarded boiler, and miscellaneous plumbing parts."

Kate studied the unusual piece. It wasn't just a cook stove. It was a work of art, right down to the heart-shaped air intake hole cut into its cylindrical leg. Focusing on Ben again, she said, "After all the time and effort you put into making it, don't you feel something for it?"

Ben took a slow sip of wine, tipped his goblet toward her, and said, "I learned long ago not to get attached. So, to answer your question, no, I don't feel anything for my cook stove or my house. I could walk away from either in an instant."

Kate eyed him with vexation. "Well, most people don't share your dispassionate view, especially old people. For them, their homes become safe havens, their possessions, lifelines to cling to when memory starts to fail. But then, someone as unfeeling and insensitive as you would have no idea what it's like to work side-by-side with a loved one, building a life together, and after that person dies and memories begin to fade, want to cling to the material world you'd created together."

Ben said nothing, just held her gaze unblinking. But during the silence that stretched between them, Kate saw desolation creep into his eyes. Then his gaze sharpened, and he said, "And you don't know what the hell you're talking about. Unless you've walked in a person's shoes you can't judge what they feel, or analyze their motives, based on your limited perception. As for your aging friends, maybe it's time they let go and got on with their lives. But someone as emotional and histrionic as you wouldn't be able to grasp that concept."

"
Emotional and histrionic
!"  Kate slapped her napkin down and stood. "Just because I care deeply for a group of kindly old people doesn't make me emotional and histrionic!" The man was utterly impossible. Reasoning with him was like trying to reason with a mule.

"Then let's call a truce and get on with your ad ideas."

Kate turned a sharp glance on him. "I'm not sure I want to share them with you now. I doubt if we could work together."

"That's what I mean," Ben said. "You let your emotions dictate your business decisions, when in fact, emotions should play no part. But if your ad ideas have no merit, you, being overly-emotional, wouldn't want to share them with someone who might point that out."

"You may believe whatever you want about me," Kate said, "it makes no difference. But I assure you, my ad ideas have far more merit than the incompetent, amateurish renderings I saw displayed at the reception!"

"Why don't I be the judge?"

"Very well." Kate caught the trace of a smile on his lips. The thought that he was again toying with her for his amusement made her all the more determined to show him that her ad ideas were far superior to any he'd come up with. Then, after proving it, she might take her business elsewhere. She stalked over to the futon and snapped open her portfolio. By the time she'd removed several mock-ups, he'd cleared a place on the table for her presentation, and she arranged the sketches in a neat display.

"As I said before you should be emphasizing the profile of the helmet," she said without preamble. "In this one—" she pointed to a particular illustration "—with the air vent flaring on top you have the profile of a gladiator's helmet. I call it the
Gladiator
. And this one—" she touched her fingertip to another sketch "—is the
Etruscan
. You'd be promoting the ultimate male fantasy. For your TV campaign, picture a man on his motorcycle. Focus on the helmet and move in close. Focus on his eyes and merge with his thoughts. He sees himself as a gladiator standing in a chariot, driving a team of horses and—"

"Your ideas are good," Ben broke in. "Leave them with me and we'll discuss them over dinner tomorrow. I make a mean
coq au vin
."

Kate glanced up and found him smiling. She got the distinct impression he was just stringing her along by suggesting dinner, hoping she'd give up her crusade for the old folks and spend then evening rolling around the futon with him in passionate surrender, as was clearly his original plan. He certainly didn't waist time getting his women into the sack. "Sorry, but being overly emotional, I never chance mixing business with pleasure."

Ben laughed lightly. "Touché," he said. "I'll come by your place and we can discuss them there—" the glint of wry amusement danced in his eyes "—with your grandmother present to keep me at bay, of course."

"It's my grandmother's home. I live with her. But about your going there—" Kate stopped short. Though she'd intended to object, she realized this was the opportunity she needed. While at Grandma's, Ben would be subjected to a most pitiful display of grieving seniors. Grandma, Dora and Thelma could be consummate actresses when the need arose. If a performance by those three didn't tug at Ben's heartstrings, nothing would. "Fine," she said. "Come by around five."

"Whatever the lady says." But the flicker of amusement in Ben's eyes told her he was agreeing to the time only because it fit his needs.

She licked her dry lips. "Yes... well... if you don't mind, I'd like you to take me home now." She started for the door.

Ben positioned himself in front of her. "It's not polite to eat and run."

Kate peered into dark hooded eyes now smoldering with seduction. "It might not be polite,” she said, “but it’s much safer."

"You've jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"And I don't think I have. When a woman arrives at a man's house and finds a double mattress with two pillows waiting, there's only one conclusion to draw. I just wish I had another way to get home. I don't like the idea of riding behind you on that thing—" her face flushed hot "—that, motorcycle out there."

A teasing light came into his eyes. "That's a disappointment," Ben said. "I'd hoped by now you'd be eager to ride on my thing."

Kate groped for a comeback to put him in his place, but she was distracted by the sound of an approaching vehicle. It pulled to a halt out front and several loud shots rang out. Ben answered her unasked question. "My grandfather's old truck. It backfires every time he stops."

Kate looked at Ben with a start. "Would that be your... father's father?"

Ben nodded. "Henry Stassen. He owns a small winery down the road, something he got into a few years back." He went to greet his grandfather.

Kate felt a growing sense of expectancy. She was finally going to meet the man who'd held Grandma's contempt for over fifty years. He'd be much older than in the photos though, his face etched by time, his hair white and thinning, his once-muscular frame angular and maybe bent. But to Kate's surprise, the man who walked into the house with Ben was tall and straight, his face amazingly handsome for a man in his late seventies, and he had a crop of silver hair that most men, young or old, would envy.

Ben positioned himself beside her. Resting his hand on the back of her neck, he said to his grandfather, "Gramps, this is Kate O’Connor, the woman I told you about the other night, you know, the one who crashed the reception, and after being thrown out, managed to wangle her way into my office."

Kate glared at Ben, then said to his grandfather, "The only reason I did all those things was because no one in your grandson's office would give me an appointment."

Henry Stassen stroked his chin. "So, you're the young woman with my old raccoon coat," he said, eying her closely. "Ben didn't say who your grandfather was though. He only said we'd been friends in college."

"My grandfather was John Galbraith," Kate replied, while hoping it wouldn't dredge up an unwelcome past, that the years had dimmed whatever bad blood had been between the two men years before

Henry Stassen said nothing, and after a few moments ticked by, Kate wondered if he'd heard. She looked at Ben, who was clearly puzzled by his grandfather's silence.

Raising his voice a notch, Ben enunciated close to his grandfather's ear, "Kate said that her grandfather was John Galbraith."

Henry glowered at Ben. "You don't need to yell in my ear, boy. I'm not deaf."

Ben shrugged. "When you didn't say anything, I assumed you hadn't heard. Do you remember John Galbraith?"

"Course I remember him," Henry countered. "I'm not senile either." He turned to Kate. "How is John?"

"He died a few years back," Kate replied.

"Sorry to hear that." Though Henry Stassen's words expressed regret, his tone did not. Whatever happened between him and her grandfather hadn't been forgotten, or forgiven. Although Henry Stassen didn't ask, Kate added, "My grandmother, who you may remember as Rose, is fine."

Again, a long silence. And again, Ben raised his voice to his grandfather's ear and enunciated, "Kate said her grandmother is Rose Galbraith, and that she's fine."

Henry eyed Ben with disgust. "What the devil's wrong with you, boy?" he snapped. "My hearing's as good as yours."

Ben shrugged. "Then you're pretty preoccupied. Is something wrong?"

"I'm on my way to the city," Henry said, dismissing the subject of Rose and John Galbraith. "I stopped by to see if you needed anything?"

Ben glanced at Kate, then said to his grandfather, "Maybe you could give Kate a ride home. I have a few things to do around here and she wants to leave right away."

Oddly, on hearing Ben's suggestion, Kate felt mild disappointment, though she couldn't reason why. The last thing she wanted was to ride behind Ben Stassen on his motorcycle. Something about the man set her nerves humming and her heart hammering, and she had to remind herself that he was, after all, the enemy.

Henry turned to Kate and said, "I don't mind giving you a lift, miss, if you don't mind riding in an old truck."

"No, I don't mind," Kate replied. She eyed the futon, now made up into a couch. Everything was clear now. Ben was a player! Once he'd realized she wasn't playing he had no further interest in her, except for her ad ideas. Which suited her fine. She could focus on the Sellwood Action Committee and not be sidetracked by a man who made her drool and slaver like a teenage groupie!

"Then we'll be on our way." Henry patted Ben on the shoulder. “See you later, boy." He stepped around Kate and headed for the door. As he walked toward the truck, Kate noticed that he had a decided limp. She glanced at Ben and waited for an explanation.

Ben answered her unasked question. “An old war injury.” He fixed his eyes on hers and said nothing, but from the sober look on his face, Kate got the feeling there was something he wanted to say. She waited, and when he offered nothing, she said, somewhat distractedly, "Well… thank you for the lunch… and the wine… and… I'll be on my way..."

To her surprise, Ben curved a finger under her chin and pressed his mouth to hers in a slow, lingering kiss. His lips were soft and yielding against hers, and Kate couldn't bring herself to stop what he was doing. Gradually her eyelids drifted shut. It was all so warm and pleasant. The taste of burgundy still lingered on his breath… No, not on his breath. On his tongue, which was tracing the crevice between her lips, until they parted. Her heart beat wildly as his tongue teased a response from hers. Instinctively, she raised her hands to steady herself, and her palms met the hard wall of his chest. He ended the kiss with several short pecks, then captured her hands in his and said in a deep, husky voice, "I look forward to picking up tomorrow where we're leaving off here today."