Gift of the Golden Mountain (28 page)

Daniel was waiting for them in the cafeteria. He was sitting on a table, wrapping the red cellophane strip from a packet of crackers around his little finger. He looked up when they walked in; his glance flickered but could not meet his father's, so he looked at Karin instead.

     "I'm Karin," she said, before Philip could introduce her.

     "Dan," the boy mumbled.

     "I'm glad it's 'Dan.' I thought maybe you wanted to be called 'Daniel.' The problem with Karin is that you can't have a nickname, and I've always envied people who have them."

     "Is that right?" Philip said, amused.

     Karin was looking at Daniel when she said, "Sure is."

     A slow, half smile played around his lips. He stood, put out his hand, and said, "Hello, sir."

     Philip took his hand and held it. "Sir? I thought this was a survivalist school, not a military camp."

     The boy looked at the floor. "Mr. Egon—he's one of the teachers here—says the two go together. He says discipline and survival and manners are all part of the same scheme."

     "We could use Mr. Egon in Berkeley these days," Philip laughed.

     Daniel, serious, answered, 'True. You need somebody to bash a few heads together up there—between the dopeheads and the antiwar jerkoffs."

     Philip flinched. Karin quickly put in, "Where is everybody? It seems awfully empty around here."

     "In the mountains," Daniel answered, "every Saturday the whole camp goes for a day trek into the mountains, rain or shine— anything short of a white-out."

     "Did you want to go?" Karin asked.

     He shrugged.

     "Thanks for staying behind this time," she went on. "I really did want to meet you."

They had lunch at the only place in town that served food, the Wagon Wheel Cafe, where the Saturday special was Mady's Real Beef Stew.

     "What is 'Real Beef Stew' and who is 'Mady'?" Karin asked Dan.

     He answered, "You've got to take things literally out here. Real beef stew means real beef, not horsemeat, which Mady is suspected of using now and then, it's so tough. And Mady is about a hundred years old and still dresses the way she used to dress when she was dealing blackjack in Reno back before electricity, I think. Mr. Egon says she looks like she's been soaked in brine, that's like being pickled—you'll know her if you see her. And she has a few young . . ." his hesitation was heavy with innuendo, ". . . proteges hanging around. To catch guys passing through between L.A. and Reno."

     "I was getting worried, Dan," his father said, "but now I see you are getting an education, after all."

     Karin noticed the "Dan."

     On the drive back to Bishop Philip was elated. "I'd almost forgotten what a terrific laugh the kid has. It's been so long since I've heard it. You were wonderful, K. God. I can't believe the difference. Part of it is the school, but I think you were able to make him feel easy . . ."

     "It's too bad we couldn't have met Mr. Egon. He seems to be a major influence."

     "When Daniel was showing you the grounds, I had a talk with Dave Powell, the guy who runs the school. Egon is an ex-Marine, very gung ho Corps but, according to Powell, reliable. He assured me that Egon isn't training killers behind his back."

     "Is that what you thought?"

     "Daniel's remark about 'bashing heads in Berkeley' bothered me, yes. And surprised me, too, since I remember a time when his room reeked of pot. I suppose I'm relieved to find him antidrug, because he's an obsessive kind of kid and I can see him getting
caught up in the whole drug culture. His half-baked ideas on the war don't please me, but frankly I didn't want to bring up a subject that could have been divisive. Not today."

     "I know. And it's Dan."

     He looked at her quizzically, so she repeated, "He wants to be called 'Dan.' He told me."

     "So is that how it's going to be?" He laughed. "You are an amazement, Karin Rolofsen. You and Dan teamed up against me? Making me change old habits?"

     "Afraid so. If you want me, you've got to take Dan and Thea too."

     The car hit a patch of black ice and swerved; Philip swung it around, turning with the spin. Karin tensed, concentrated. The road was empty, the mountains revolved around them as the car made a full revolution. Philip eased it back into the northbound lane. They drove in silence, catching their breath, trying to take in all that had happened in a few seconds.

     "Did I understand you correctly?" he finally asked.

     Karin laughed. "Yes!" she cried out. "Yes I will marry you. Yes we will survive."

     He slowed the car to a stop, opened his arms, and she came to him, mouth open to "breathe in the clean, safe smell of him.

     A shrill, whining blast from an air horn pierced the silence; a big rig came barreling down the highway toward them. As the driver passed he gave them a "thumbs up" sign.

     "As you know by now," Philip said as they entered the outskirts of the town of Bishop, "in some ways I am incorrigibly old-fashioned."

     She reached for his hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.

     "Now that we are officially
betrothed
—isn't that a nice old-fashioned word?—now that we have agreed to plight our troth," he said with mock seriousness, "we have to make a few personal decisions."

     She laughed, a pure clear trilling sound that caused him to look at her with delight.

     "God, I love the way you laugh," he said.

     "And I love you for being incorrigibly old-fashioned, in some ways."

     "We have to spend the night in Bishop," he went on. "I reserved separate rooms." He touched her hair and spoke softly, as if reading a line of poetry: "There is time aplenty now . . ."

     Karin felt a surge of gratitude. Philip's touch was light, certain. Never fumbling, never groping. Philip knew how to caress, how to respond to her own shy advances. When she put her arms around him, Philip did not assume she wanted to be physically overwhelmed. He understood affection. When she began to worry that she was not giving him all that he wanted, he sensed what she was thinking and made her understand that he was happy, in fact quite content, to go slowly. Not just for her, but for himself. It was important, he said, that both of them feel ready. She had cried, that a man could be so sweetly understanding. That she did not have to worry about satisfying him.

     "Do you suppose we could get adjoining rooms?" she asked.

She positioned herself rather primly on a small settee and watched as he opened the burgundy leather case, took from it two silver flasks, a small bottle which held maraschino cherries, and two glasses of heavy lead crystal. "Old-fashioneds," he told her, chuckling. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

     "Nice in this cold climate."

     "The perfect nightcap," he said. "I guarantee you will sleep well."

     "Oh, I intend to," she smiled at him as she used her fingers to dip into her drink for the cherry and bit into it. She took a sip and held it in her mouth, allowing the warmth to slip down her throat a small amount at a time.

     "Please, come sit next to me," she invited.

     "That would be my great pleasure," he answered.

They moved in slow motion; he sat, drank from his glass, put it down, moved his hand to caress her neck. She put her hand over his, guided it to her chestbone, held it there for a long moment. Took a sip, touched lips, laughed at the taste of cherry on the tongue. Her hand still on his, guiding under her gown, tenderly. A sharp intake of breath as he lowered his head to kiss the soft place where her breasts met and rose, his hand exploring the great pink rise of her breast.

     He pulled her face to his and kissed her forehead. "Sweet," he said, "you taste sweet."

     She took another sip and let the warm liquor trickle down her throat. "I like your hands on me," she said, her fingers on the tie to his silk robe. He kissed her on the lips, three times, lightly. She pressed her mouth into his, hard.

     "You have to finish your nightcap," he whispered into her ear, "that's part of the ritual." They toasted each other, Karin could feel her face flush warm. They drained the glasses; he set his down very carefully, then took hers from her, carefully.

     He stood, pulled her to him, held her close. She could feel his erection through the silk, and pressed herself into him. He put his hands firmly about her waist and said, "Come with me."

     They sat on the side of the bed. He held her face between his hands, looking at her, kissing her eyes, the tip of her nose, her exposed throat. She felt herself grow warm and wet; she wanted to put her hands on him, pull him into her. With her tongue she flicked into his ears. Slowly, slowly, he lifted her into the bed, gently pulled the cover over them, turned off the light, slipped out of his robe. She could feel the coarse hair on his chest, she took him in her hand and felt a shiver run through him.

     She turned and raised herself so that her breasts fell loose against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat; "My sweet, sweet girl," he whispered into her ear, while his hand explored the contours of her stomach. "You are so beautiful," he sighed as he entered her.

     She arched her back, made a small thrusting motion. He began the rhythmic movement, kissing her, talking to her. "Here, is this good? Tell me."

     She fell into his rhythm, and it was as if they were dancing, as if their lovemaking had been choreographed. The tempo picked up, faster and faster until it reached a crescendo, he moaned and she moaned with him in one long sustaining sound . . . then they lay quietly in each other's arms, breathing in the sweet smell of sex.

     When he could speak, his voice was soft and lyric: "That was better than wonderful. Better than marvelous. God." He caressed her breast. ". . . yes?"

     "Yes," she lied, kissing him sweetly on the lips.

"Put on your archivist's hat, Faith," May said, "I need to dip into your seemingly limitless knowledge of the old family history." She raised her eyebrows as if what she was about to say might shock me. "I want you to look into your crystal ball to the period around the end of the war. The big Two, I mean. Zero in on Katherine Reade McCord, rich and beautiful and in her early forties. And see if you come up with any cross reference to . . ." She paused, made sure she had my full attention, ". . . Philip Ward."