Amber's Embrace (10 page)

Her relief was short-lived. The film was the most soft and seductive piece of artwork she had ever seen on the screen. Had she realized it would be so, she might never have agreed to see it with Zachary. Understated and magnificently photographed, as was so much French work, it was both romantic and alluring. The sound track carried a poignancy which the dialogue of whispers augmented. It was a love story, powerfully done, exquisitely tender.

More than once, her pulse raced in time with the heroine’s, though her hero was seated beside her, watching as was she. More than once, she gripped her hands together in her lap, lest she reach for his. More than once, she ached for the arm that might have gone about her shoulder and brought her head against his chest, yet he remained engrossed in the picture. As the climax of the movie neared, her pink-glossed lip bore the brunt of her frustration, even white teeth digging mercilessly into it, as she rued the unfairness of the situation.
It was a conspiracy,
she concluded sourly, bent on driving her into the arms of Zachary Wilder. He must have planned this; perhaps he had even brought other dates to this very same movie.
It simply wasn’t fair!

“Well, madame, what did you think?” The broad grin which dazzled her as they exited the theater melted any of her testiness. The problem was her own over fantasizing subconscious. Was she love-starved, or, more specifically, sex-starved? Perhaps she
should
have begun to date sooner. Then her present frustration might have been put into perspective.

“It was an excellent film! Very well done!” The understatement of her rating brought a devilish twist to the male lips that now lowered to nestle in her hair, breathing softly against it.

“Not very helpful for the peace of mind, though, was it?”

The flush that crept up her neck was observed before she could will it into abeyance. That strong arm was about her shoulders now, holding her to his hip as they walked to the car. As though facing a combustible situation, the two were silent during the ten-minute ride across the river to Cambridge and into Harvard Square. An electrical current circulated between them, charging the air with its force. It was only after they had parked and left the car to begin a stroll around the Square that Amber felt herself relax once more.

Harvard Square was a treat she had indulged in soon after she’d arrived in the Boston area. Though Cambridge was an entity in and of itself, Harvard Square was its hub. The atmosphere here was academic and intellectual, with bookstores dominating the window fronts and students populating the walks. Diversity was the password, high color the rule. The flavor of the Square shifted from season to season, as did its population. Now, in summertime, the air was warm and humid, yet strangely light and free. It was a time of summer sessions, of less concentrated study, of indulgent gaiety. The streets were given up wholly to evening adventurers, many of whom had come to sample the unique spice of the Square—as had Amber and Zach.

Her hand lay lightly in his as they walked, working their way slowly through the leisurely crowd, stopping on one corner to hear an impromptu jazz concert, on another to appreciate a similarly staged folk group. “They didn’t have these in my day,” he mused by her ear. “Things seemed so much more studious then. You know, everyone scurrying around the Square loaded with books…” His gaze was faraway, in another time. “We used to study late, then head over for an Elsie’s Special.” Remembering her presence, he looked warmly down at her. “You don’t know what an Elsie’s Special is, do you?” Amber shook her head, wondering more critically who the “we” of his adventure was. “An Elsie’s Special was a roast beef sandwich on a bulkie roll, with huge piles of meat, thin slices of onion, and a healthy portion of Russian dressing—all for seventy-five cents.” He shook his head. “That was a long time ago.” Again, the distant glaze of his eyes took him from her, albeit for a brief moment. At the instant that she would have asked if he’d known his wife here, he laughed more lightly. “You must be starved. Let’s go get something to eat. There is a terrific little French restaurant right around the corner; it will go well with the movie.” The playful nip he gave her middle brought out her own laugh, setting the tone of their dinner.

For nearly two hours, Amber put aside every fear, every worry, every inhibition. Sitting across the small corner table from one another, they exchanged tales of various happy times in their lives, many of the more recent vintage that excluded mention of their prospective former spouses. Zachary filled her in on a recent conference he attended, comprised of leg men, back men, arm men, joint men, nose men, and the occasional female orthopedist. To Amber’s gay laughter at the categorization of his colleagues, he added, “There was one fellow who specialized in fingers—Dr. Knuckleman.” She snickered skeptically. “No, I’m serious,” he assured her, barely stifling his own guffaw. “At least, I’m not one of the gastroenterologists. The thought of belonging to a ‘gas group’ or going to a ‘liver meeting’ never much appealed to me.”

When their mutual laughter subsided, she went on to tell him of the various free-lance pieces she’d done, including a memorable one of a car wash. “You know, the type where you sit in your car and watch the long gray fingers slither up and over your windshield,” which had given her nightmares for weeks afterward. “I created a verbal monster in that piece—it came back to haunt me. I’ve never been one for horror flicks.”

Much later, when they returned to Dover, Amber invited him in for a nightcap. “Ah, you’d better make that coffee,” she apologized, as soon as the invitation had left her lips. “I don’t keep a supply of liquor around the house.”

His eyes warmed her as much as a drink might have. “That will be fine.”

Mugs in hands, she led him through the kitchen to the back porch, an open veranda with a long wooden bench-type swing. A gentle breeze had begun to stir, bringing with it the only hope of coolness that the night would offer. Aside from the chorus of crickets, all was still and peaceful. The swing rocked gently beneath their joint weight.

“Tell me about your marriage,” he suggested softly. The faint light of the kitchen cast a golden glow to his profile, yet she didn’t need it to tell her that his eyes were on her.

Her marriage and its failure were the last thing that she wanted to discuss, the last thing that she expected Zachary to want to hear about. “You don’t really want to listen to that melodrama, do you?” she chided doubtfully.

His answer was blunt. “Yes.”

There were few people with whom she had discussed her past. That she should even consider doing it now, with Zachary Wilder, a relatively new acquaintance, bemused her. Yet, from the very first, she had sensed the understanding he had of her experiences, as though his had been very similar. It seemed perfectly normal that she should tell him everything.

“Ron and I were childhood friends, then sweethearts,” she began, staring off into the darkness as her mind traveled back in years. “We came from the same town; our parents were friends. We went to school together, right through high school. When his family moved from Maryland to the West Coast, it was understandable that we should both apply to schools there. By some
miracle
”—she emphasized the word, wondering what the future would have held had that “miracle” not occurred—“we were both accepted to Stanford. We were young and very idealistic. Despite our parents’ objections, we eloped the summer before our freshman year.” Her blond head turned toward Zachary as she sought to justify her actions. He sat quietly, listening closely, watching intently. Strangely intimidated, she lapsed into silence.

“Go on,” he urged softly.

Breathing deeply, she looked down at her coffee mug. In hindsight, she had been so foolish, so shortsighted. “It seemed to make sense at the time. You know, economical. Less expensive for us to live together than apart, type of thing.”

“Why didn’t you just
live
together?” When Zachary had been an undergraduate, one didn’t “live with” someone. The sexual revolution came about while he was in medical school, but he had been too busy to pay it much heed. And, anyway, he had already met Sheila.

“I was raised in a very strict home. It was bad enough that we eloped, depriving my parents of their only daughter’s big extravaganza of a wedding. Had we decided to live together without benefit of marriage, I would have been disowned.” But to blame her parents, totally, was unfair. “And it was me, too. I would have felt … uncomfortable…” That she felt old-fashioned was absurd, considering the status of sexual mores today. But she would have made the same decision over again. “As it turned out, it was a lucky thing that we did marry. I was pregnant within three months.” A sad laugh slipped through her lips. “We were so naive. Everything was bound to go our way. I never even bothered with birth control!”

“You must have wanted a baby.”

Stunned, her glance flew through the darkness to the depth of his blue eyes. Considering the situation from the more objective perch on which she now sat, a baby was the last thing the two of them had needed at the tender age of nineteen. Once again, Zachary had weeded through the superfluous thought to get right to the nitty-gritty. “Yes, I suppose I did. At least, once I knew I was pregnant, I was excited. It was … another thing … that the young and all-powerful could do.” Sarcasm etched the truth of her feelings at the time.

“What about college?” he prompted her gently.

The lilt of her tone held self-ridicule. “Oh, that was no problem. I mean, with our parents to support us—which they did, despite their opposition to our marriage—we could hire people to watch Scottie while we were at class. It was actually very easy to arrange…” Her voice trailed off; Scottie
had
been the least of her worries from that point on.

As though following her thought, Zachary jumped to the punch line. “What happened?”

This was the hardest part to face. Deep within her remained a lingering taste of humiliation, of hurt, of bitterness, of shock. For long moments, the serenity of the night served to soothe her, giving her, finally, the courage to explain. “Neither of us had ever dated anyone else. I never felt the need; Ron did. After Scott was born, when I was more limited in movement, Ron began to feel his oats. I suppose it was only natural that he should wonder about what he missed. He had made many friends at Stanford—we both had. But his were more aggressive.” She sighed. “To make a long story short, he spread his wings and took flight. Oh, he came back to us every few days or so, but we never … slept … together after that.” The hand that nonchalantly lifted the weight of her hair off her neck and gave access to the night air trembled slightly. The sense of inadequacy which that disastrous marriage had bequeathed her was all too vivid for her. If there was one thing that had haunted her over the years, it was that she had somehow been lacking, that her husband had sought refuge elsewhere when she had been unable to give him what he needed.

Head hung low, the curtain of her hair shielded her face from Zachary’s. When his strong fingers cupped her chin to turn her toward him, she flinched. Persistently, he wound his hands through her hair, forcing her head around. When she kept her eyes downcast, he reproved her softly. “Look at me, Amber.” Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Don’t blame yourself,” he urged, reading her thoughts as though they had all been spoken aloud. “That happens with men—with women, too. The need to explore, to experiment, sexually, if in no other way, is a common phenomenon.”

“But
I
never wanted to—” she began, the hurt pouring from her gaze.

“That’s the kind of person
you
are, Amber. Not everyone is like you are. Your husband was different. He must have felt the need, at that stage in his life, to satisfy a curiosity—”

“Did you?” The words slipped out unintentionally, but she wouldn’t take them back, even given the chance.

His hands fell to her shoulders, then back to the small wooden rail between them. “Yes, I did. I had my heyday, way back there.” His admission contained neither pride nor bravado; as he offered it, it was a statement of fact. “I didn’t settle down until I was a med student, with that wanderlust behind me.”

“And how would
you
have felt if your wife suddenly decided that you weren’t enough of a man for her?” she blurted impulsively.

“She did.” His words hit her like dead weight, clearing her head of self-pity instantly.

“W-what?” It seemed impossible.

His eyes held hers steadily as he elaborated. “My wife took up with my best friend after six years of marriage and with a young child at home.” If he felt anger and bitterness, it was well hidden.

“How could she?” she cried out in astonishment.

Zachary laughed broadly, incongruously delighted at her response. “Very easily. I was on duty when my friend was off. She had the best of both worlds. I just happened to come home unexpectedly one day to find them in bed together.”

“How horrible!” At least Ron had held his tête-à-têtes far from their apartment. The devastation would have been that much worse if he had thumbed his nose at her as blatantly as Zachary’s wife had done to him.

His tone had sobered. “It was … at the time. Very ugly. I understand that she’s been through quite a few other men since. I only hope,” he clenched his jaw, “that she has enough sense to be discreet about her social life while Liz is with her.”

Now she sensed his frustration, yet words of comfort eluded her. Rather, she leaned tentatively toward him, winding her arms around his waist and daring to rest her head against the solid wall of his chest. Driven by the need to somehow assuage the loneliness that he must have felt—that she had felt herself—she offered him her warmth in silence. Slowly, his arms moved to close the circle, tightening imperceptibly at her sigh.

They remained locked together for long moments of comfort from the hurts of the past. If Amber had initiated the gesture, his steel-banded hold returned it in full. Her ear rested flush against his heart, its steady beat a lulling song. This was the closeness she had craved all evening, though its innocence decried all suggestiveness. She felt strangely happy and complete in Zachary’s arms, and she gave herself up to the strength of his sanctuary. Here she was safe from the world. Within his protection, nothing could harm her.