DEATH COMES TO AN OPEN HOUSE (21 page)

John asked Jean out, but she refused.

There was Wayne.

 
Chapter 37

At first, Jean had assumed that most females fell in love with Wayne. He was gorgeous, kind, funny, considerate and intelligent. What was surprising was that Wayne developed an interest in Jean.

They had been discussing the viability of a property to add to the collection of rentals. It was priced well, easy to maintain, but the neighborhood was questionable. Wayne stopped talking—he always did most of it—and pacing—his favorite decision-making activity—and stopped in front of Jean’s chair.

“You’re not striking, darlin’. But you grow on people.” He tilted his head to one side appraisingly. “Delicate. Perfect skin.” He touched one cheek with a finger.

Jean tried to find an appropriate expression for her face. It wasn’t possible.

That was the beginning. Then came a dinner after work. Then another, the third week of August, to celebrate moving into their new office. Jean was pleased to arrive at a Chinese restaurant. She knew what to order, how to pronounce everything correctly, from Hua. But so did Wayne and he, as always, ordered for her.

She was surprised when he refused dessert.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked hopefully, her pencil poised to write. There weren’t many in the restaurant.

Wayne shook his head.

Jean wanted dessert. And coffee. Wayne hadn’t even asked. Thinking quickly back over their short relationship, it became clear that she had made very few decisions. That didn’t bother her much. Maybe one of the characteristics Wayne had liked, but hadn’t mentioned, was pliability. After a quick, mild spurt of resentment, it was clear that she would put up with a great deal to be with this man. There did seem to be a touch of rudeness in not asking about dessert, though. Rudeness was new.

The air was warm and humid as they left the restaurant, a physical presence. It was no longer light. Fall and school were nearing.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To dessert. The Chinese don’t make the best desserts. They like fruit. And I know you like chocolate.”

That was reassuring. But they stopped, not at a restaurant, but at an elegant apartment building. Wayne drove into its garage, parked in a marked space, got out and opened her door, a social grace that seemed to have been lost somewhere in her generation.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“My place.”

Warnings sounded.

“I thought we were talking chocolate,” she said as they got out.

“We are. I’m quite a good cook in a limited way.”

Wayne ran his fingertips down the sides of her throat, across her shoulders, down her arms, just touching the sides of her breasts and then around her waist as he pulled her to him. A small voice somewhere was saying “no,” but it was faint. No boy had ever touched her like this.

“This isn’t chocolate,” she protested.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s much better. But you’re safe. We’re in the garage.”

“Maybe we ought to stay here.”

He laughed.

“I’ve grabbed a quick snack in garages before, but it would be more comfortable inside. Don’t worry. I’ll behave as long as you want me to.”

He did. There was no more touching on the way except a hand on the small of her back as he ushered her into his apartment. It was nothing like Rita’s, which had seemed the height of luxury. Jean had always thought of modern décor as cold. This was a painting, an integrated aesthetic unit, bisque walls matching wood floors, one copper wall, a few paintings, large and strongly colored abstracts, framed in silver or black. Most of the furniture was black leather with tables of glass and brushed silver metal of some kind, not the shiny chrome she was familiar with. The lighting was hidden, indirect, designed to illuminate the paintings and for reading. She hadn’t before realized the importance of lighting. This, she decided, must be the way the rich often decorated. The homes their office usually dealt with were more like the DeLuccas’, homey, often overcrowded with what she and Rita called simply “stuff.”

“I think you have good taste.”

“Think?”

Wayne was amused.

“No. You really have good taste. I love that huge bird in the corner. What is it?”

“An egret. Carved by a man in Gettysburg. John Schrock. Bass wood.”

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

But Wayne’s smile wasn’t directed at the egret. That was all right.

“This is you, isn’t it? You and your finer things in life.”

“And you are one of my finer things in life.” Wayne paused. It was the perfect time to make a standard move, but instead he turned, walked toward the kitchen, then stopped and looked back. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a line, doesn’t it? I don’t like cheap come-ons. I am who I am and I want you to know that person.”

Jean followed him as far as the kitchen door, eying an impressive chocolate cake on the counter.

He noticed her look.

“My favorite,” he said. Chocolate with fresh raspberry filling and mocha icing.”

He pushed the button to start the coffee.

“I want you to know me, too,” she said. “But that’s easy. Dad always said I was an open book.”

“That’s one of the things I like about you.” Wayne opened the refrigerator. “Just a touch of cream and sugar, right?”

She walked into the kitchen. It was a mistake. Without intending to, she seemed to walk right into his arms.

“The coffee,” she said into his ear. “It smells wonderful.”

“I put a little … unsweetened cocoa into it … makes it …” he was brushing little kisses on her face.

“Taste better?”

“Mmm.”

Jean pulled back, out of breath. “Wayne, I told you. I mean, I accept some of the responsibility here, but …”

“I know. You are a nice girl. A nice old fashioned girl. One of the reasons I want you so much. You’re what I want exactly. And so hard to find.”

Wayne leaned back a little and looked at her intently.

“Do you know how rare you are? Gentle, kind, curious, flexible, modest …”

She laughed.

“That’s not the list you gave me last time.”

“Last time? My God, you remember all that stuff?”

“It’s important to me.”

“Then that means I’m important to you. That’s good. That’s very good.”

She had been right to be intimidated by Wayne’s touch. It was so easy for him. Nothing like awkward Eddie. The cake was abandoned. On the slow walk to his bedroom, he removed each piece of her clothing in a series of caresses, easily, almost gracefully, until she stood naked in front of him. She didn’t quite understand why it wasn’t embarrassing. It helped that the drapes were drawn and he hadn’t turned on the light; there was only the indirect illumination from the hall. It also helped that her body looked good naked, smooth, unmarked and of a color that provided its own adequate covering. When they were both undressed, it was as it had been in the restaurant when their hands looked different but right together. He was not too tall to merge comfortably with her slim, small figure. His frequent, light touches had brought every nerve alive and wanting to be touched again.

And he knew exactly what to do about that.

Afterwards, she wondered if she had caved in too soon. Not too soon for the way Wayne felt about her or the way she felt about him it seemed. This was no casual encounter. Not too soon for it to feel right. Or did experience or a special talent account for that? Maybe both? Or a special sensitivity? Even better, maybe they were just a good match. Jean liked that thought. She lay with her head on Wayne’s shoulder. The light from the hall shone through the hair on his chest, making a gauzy halo in front of her eyes. She ran her fingers over the tops of the hairs, laughed for no particular reason and slowly, happily went to sleep.

 
Chapter 38

Jean was alone in the bed when she woke. First there was a warm, lazy feeling that made her smile. Its cause was obvious. Next came the pleasure of being in Wayne’s bedroom. The beige carried from the living room onto the walls of the bedroom, but the black and burgundy were replaced by dark walnut furniture with hunter green and touches of yellow. How could one man be so expert at so many things? And he wanted her. In his words, she was
exactly
what he wanted. She savored the word
.
She was rare, curious, flexible, kind.
What were the others? How could I have forgotten? Oh yes, gentle. There was one other …

The reverie was broken rudely.
This was Monday!
Do I have office duty?
Adrenaline flashed and subsided.

No. No chores to do for Wayne, either
.

“Wayne?” she called.

There was no response. Nor was there any other sound from the apartment. The black agate clock beside her sent the surprising news that it was after nine. Her hours were irregular, but Wayne was conscientious about being at his office phone by nine.

This was nice. She was alone in Wayne’s apartment, perhaps the apartment eventually to be her home. She got up and walked around, feeling pleasantly possessive. On the kitchen counter, there was a note in a sloppy scrawl telling her to make herself at home, coffee in the carafe, chocolate cake for breakfast, a key to the apartment and another for his car, his beautiful, always shiny, black Acura. He must have taken his BMW, the big car he used when chauffeuring investors.

Jean fixed her offbeat breakfast, grinning at the large gap where Wayne had cut his piece, cleaned up and got ready to leave, dishes in the dishwasher, coffee pot off and rinsed, the wet towel from her shower spread carefully across one of the many rods. Then a slow walk through the apartment, with a first look at the second bedroom, which Wayne used as an office, touching his things, admiring the neatness. There would be no cleaning up after Wayne as there had been with Ellie and her father.

After a final glance around the living room, she reluctantly closed the door, locked it and, clutching the keys tightly for fear of losing them, walked outside with a new confidence toward Wayne’s car.
Their car? No. Too early to be thinking like that.

 
Chapter 39

Jean couldn’t wait to get to the office to
maybe
tell Rita about Wayne, but there was no Rita at the office, nor did she answer her phone. It was after ten at night when Jean gave up. An obviously sleepy Rita answered next morning.

“Wayne. It’s Wayne, right?”

Jean laughed.

“You are so into my head!”

“Sooooo?”

“Yeah.”

Rita recognized this immediately as an admission.

“When? Why didn’t you tell me? You sound damn—I can’t think of the word—you sound damn proud of yourself.”

“I am telling you. Just Sunday night. And I think the word is ‘smug’.”

“
And?
”

“The best.”

“How would you know?”

“Had to be.”

“Tell me.”

“No. Can’t do that. He’s just more than … just more, more, more, great, great, great! So
loving!
If I could write poetry, maybe I could tell you.”

“You caved.”

“I did. But he’s serious and so am I. It seemed right.”

“Seeming right can get easier and easier. But I’m glad for you. And it gives you some protection.”

“Protection?”

“You know, you’ll be with a man a lot, not tooting around alone. It’s safer with Harold on the prowl.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You should.”

“Harold’s gone.”

“We don’t know Harold’s gone. And he might be just a tidge angry about being rejected, don’t you think? Especially with all that money he has to offer.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Okay, then that’s just one more good thing. Honestly, though, I never thought I’d have a man like this! He knows about, I swear,
everything!
Books, gourmet food, music, ballet! He cooks! Beautiful apartment, elegant!”

“It’s called having money. You grow up with all that stuff. And you’ve told me all this before, you know. All but the apartment. I’m suspicious, but I guess I’m happy for you. Maybe I’m going to hook up, too. Lousy market. Can’t survive without my extra income—”

“Rita!”

“I know. I really
want
to obey you, so I’m going to. I guess I’ll have to marry George.”

“Marry
?” Jean gagged on her coffee.

“I can’t maintain in this market. I could rent my apartment as an investment. Then, if I left George, I would have my own asset
and
some kind of settlement from him.”

Rita sounded thoughtful, not at all like a soon-to-be bride.

“Who the hell is George?”

“You forgot you don’t swear. One of those buyers I told you about, remember? Crazy about me. Not much experience, never had anyone with my looks, excuse my ego. Proposed the minute I said we couldn’t see each other any more. Says I can have whatever I want, can be as free as I want. And he’s not really
too
homely. You might think about that. Much better to marry a man who isn’t hot like Wayne. Being adored is good. You can get away with murder. Oops! My bad. You aren’t still sensitive about Theresa, though, are you?”

“Not so much. Back to you. You totally do not love him.”

“No. Remember where I came from. Security is good. He has health insurance, which I’ve never had. I sold him a nice house, too.” Rita’s vigorous laugh came over the phone. “I picked it out because I liked it. I think he even bought it because I liked it. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Ironic.”

“Yeah, that.”

“So … What are you going to tell George? You know, about your …”

“I’m not going to tell George anything.”

“Doesn’t he deserve to know?”

“What ‘deserve to know’? That just means doesn’t he deserve to be made miserable. Why should I dump on him to make myself feel noble? It’s over. I feel guilty. But it’s my burden, not his, and I’m not going to make myself feel better by making him feel lousy!”