Tempest in Eden (8 page)

It was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do to push open the door to the kitchen. But she swallowed her last ounce of pride and went through. The hushed conversation ceased abruptly. The atmosphere was thick with tension. More than anything, she regretted having ruined this weekend for her mother and stepfather.

In the heavy silence she crossed to the coffee pot on the stove. Her hand wasn't quite steady, but she managed to half-fill a mug. She took a tentative sip. After one more she turned to face them.

"I'm sorry. I created a ruckus, and I'm sorry." John wouldn't quite meet her eyes when she addressed him. "I want to apologize for ruining an otherwise delightful weekend." They never need know she'd had a miserable time. "Mom, I'm sorry to have embarrassed you in front of your new family." Looking at a point somewhere off Ian's right shoulder, she said, "It's not her fault that I behaved so badly. All my life she's been trying to make me a lady of some discretion. It's not her failure, but my own."

"Shay, dear." Her mother jumped to her feet and embraced her. "I love you just the way you are. Don't ever feel you have to apologize for who you are. It's just that sometimes you act rashly and irresponsibly."

"Yes, I do."

She patted her mother's hand and urged her to sit back down at the table. "Reverend Douglas, Ian, I had too much wine after you went up to bed. What seemed like a fantastic practical joke last night…"

Her voice trailed off lamely, and for the first time she looked fully at him. She was shocked to see neither censure on his face nor anger. Nothing really, except a faint light glowing in his blue eyes. What it meant she didn't know.

"I overreacted and behaved badly," he said tersely. "What happened last night was your fault. What happened this morning was mine," he added in a softer tone. "I kissed you while I was dreaming. I'm sorry to have taken advantage."

Scalding tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at him in wonder. He was taking the blame for their lovemaking—and there was nothing else to call it—on himself. Why, when he'd ridiculed her all weekend, was he now forgiving her so generously? Her eyes probed the depths of his. Could she detect understanding there, or was it simply that she wanted so badly to see it?

He pushed back his chair. "I need to go if I'm to get to church before the first hymn," he said, grinning at John and Celia, who seemed vastly relieved that whatever had transpired between their children had been resolved.

Shay noted then that he was dressed in a dark gray three-piece suit with a white shirt and a tastefully dotted tie. His suitcase was standing just inside the back door.

"Dad, it was great. Sorry I won't be here to eat the fish you and Celia caught yesterday."

"Next time," John said, hugging his son unselfconsciously and thumping him proudly on the back.

"Celia," Ian said, taking Shay's mother in his arms for a fierce hug. "You're good for the old man," he said, teasing. "Don't let him take you for granted." He kissed her noisily on the cheek.

"Shay." Just the sound of her name coming from his mouth stopped her heart momentarily, then sent it jumping to her throat. "It was a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand, and mechanically she reached for it and pumped it twice before letting it go.

He turned away and went to the door, leaning down to pick up his suitcase. She had an overwhelming compulsion to run to him and throw herself into his arms. But, of course, she didn't. The weekend was over. They'd rarely see each other again, if at all.

"Drive carefully," Ian's father called to him as they waved good-bye.

Once he was out of sight, Celia and John turned back into the kitchen. Celia's smile collapsed when she saw Shay leaning against the countertop. "Shay, are you still ill?"

Shay shook her head absently and forced her feet to move. They seemed cemented to the floor. "No, just a little shaky. I think I'll go upstairs and lie down for a while. Then I need to be on my way."

She left about noon, after her mother had forced her to eat a scrambled egg and a slice of dry toast, and drink two cups of tea sweetened with honey.

During the drive home, Shay tried to diagnose her ailment, but couldn't. It was more than a hangover. Suddenly she didn't care about anything. Living seemed to be too much trouble to bother with. It required too much energy. Often it inflicted pain. The possibility that Ian Douglas had something to do with her malady flickered on the outskirts of her mind, but she refused to contemplate that thought further.

She returned to work, having convinced herself that the weekend rest in the country had done her a world of good. She didn't have any modeling jobs lined up, so with a burst of enthusiasm, she threw herself into her work at the gallery.

Hans Vandiveer, a wisp of a man with prissy manners and a pointed goatee, was pleased. "Watch out or I may turn all the difficult-to-please customers over to you," he warned her, wagging a slender finger in her face.

She'd worked in his shop for three years, but knew little about him except that he lived alone with four cats, whom he talked about as other people did their children. If he'd ever had a meaningful attachment in his life, male or female, he'd never mentioned it. Shay thought it safer not to inquire and was glad she didn't know. He was pleasant enough to work for as long as she could overlook his fanaticism about keeping his shop and storeroom neat.

His demand for cleanliness was the reason why Shay was perched atop a ladder, dusting a shelf that displayed inexpensive reproductions of Stuben and Lalique glass sculptures. It was mid-August, six weeks since the brief time she'd spent in the country. Shop windows displayed back-to-school clothes and supplies. Though the weather was still mild, several recent chilly mornings had warned of the approaching fall.

Shay had talked to her mother at least once a week since that weekend in late June. Celia had telephoned that following week to report that she and John were back in Trenton.

"We spent a few extra days at the cabin."

"I don't blame you. It was lovely."

"We heard from Ian. He made it in time for church, but the compressor on the church air conditioner had gone out. He said it was too bad he hadn't prepared a sermon on hell for that morning."

Shay had laughed as she knew she was expected to, though she'd wondered why the mere mention of his name could set off such conflicting emotions in her as resentment and joy.

Now she gave the glass elephant one last swirl of the feather duster. She was lowering her foot to the next rung of the ladder when she heard the tinkling sound of the bell, which signaled that a customer was entering the shop. Over her shoulder she called out, "I'll be right with you."

"No rush."

At the sound of his voice her heart pounded and her hands gripped the sides of the ladder. Her careful footsteps down the rungs faltered. She took a deep breath and looked toward the door.

He was standing a few steps inside, dressed in a pair of gray slacks and black loafers. The collar of his cream-colored sport shirt was open beneath a navy blazer. His hair was boyishly windblown. Inexplicably she felt like crying.

His eyes caught hers in an inescapable, invisible net and held them as she remained perched motionless on the ladder. "Hello, Shay," he said at last.

"What are you doing here?" Wasn't that what he'd asked her when he'd leapt out of bed that morning?

He shrugged, and one corner of his mouth lifted into a smile of chagrin. "I thought I'd offer to buy you a cup of coffee."

Chapter Five

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A
traitorous jubilation filled her heart and set it to dancing. She had every reason in the world to dislike him for all the fun he'd poked at her. He was a self-righteous, judgmental prude. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why her mouth had gone dry, why her hands and knees were suddenly shaking, why she found it impossible to take her eyes off him, and why, rather than casting off the happiness that bubbled inside her, she relished it.

Don't be a fool again, Shay, she cautioned herself, lassoing her soaring heart. Flashing him a stepsisterly smile, she took the last steps down the ladder and set her featherduster aside. "You came all the way from…"

"Brookside."

"Yes, Brookside.To buy me a cup of coffee?"

He smiled again, wider this time, more disarmingly. "I was thirsty. What time do you get off?"

"Vandiveer left early today. I'm closing the shop." She consulted a brass clock on the wall. "In about a half-hour."

"Do you mind if I wait?"

Still dazed by his unexpected appearance, she shook her head. She couldn't believe he'd really driven all that way for a coffeebreak, just to see her. Maybe… Oh, no. "Ian, there's nothing wrong, is there? My mother? John?" She had taken several anxious steps forward to clutch at his coat sleeve, convinced that he'd come to bring her news of disaster and was trying to ease into it, to cushion the blow.

His large hand covered hers where it lay on his forearm. "No! I promise. They were fine the last time I spoke with them a few days ago. I meant it when I said I came to see you."

"Oh … good," she said automatically. Her mind wasn't on what she was saying. She was thinking how wonderful it was to look at his face. His eyes were exceptional. She'd never seen eyes that were such a startling blue. Raven black and unruly, his hair curled crisply about his head. When silver began to show up in it, he'd be even more handsome. His mouth was masculine but had a sensitivity that was rare in so virile a face. She knew his mouth was capable of tenderness. When he'd kissed her…

Don't think about it, don't think about it.

They'd been staring at each other for a long while, and her hand was still trapped beneath his. Taking a step backward, she lowered her eyes nervously and pulled her hand away. Any resultant awkwardness was spared them when a customer entered the shop.

As Shay helped the woman with her selection of a porcelain ashtray, Ian amused himself by gazing at the artwork on the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, while pretending to be interested in the woman's chatter about the color scheme in her living room, Shay watched him.

His posture was proud and straight. He commanded respect by virtue of his evident physical strength. Weren't ministers supposed to engender spirituality rather than carnality? Ashamed as she was to admit it, every time she looked at him, her thoughts ran closer to the latter.

"Thank you and come back," she said as the cash register's ding signaled the conclusion of the sale. The lady carried out her purchase, and they were left alone again.

"You look different here than you did at the cabin," Ian stated, making a long, thorough appraisal of her.

She was dressed in a caramel-colored skirt that was full and soft. Her blouse was of a harmonizing color in georgette. A chaste bow was tied at her throat. Pale stockings and low-heeled shoes completed the prim and proper ensemble.

"Well, I should hope so," she said, laughing to screen the breathlessness his visual tour of her had brought on. Instead the sound came out in short, staccato puffs. "Mr. Vandiveer is very strict about the image we project. Most of our customers have conservative tastes."

"I like you this way."

"You do?"

"But I liked you the other way too."

"You did?"

"Yes." He stared down at her for an unsettling moment before he added with low, urgent sincerity, "Very much."

She could only look at him in dumbfounded confusion. Her responses had sounded like a wind-up doll's. "You do? You did?" Lord! She was behaving like an idiot, and she couldn't stop it. Her brain had turned to mush. Beneath her clothes, her body was hot. The room seemed to close in around them, to squeeze them together. It was so unbearably quiet. All she could hear was the unsynchronized ticking of the numerous clocks they had on display.

The air became thick with … with
something
going on between them. She couldn't pinpoint it. She'd never experienced it before with a man. Nothing had prepared her for it. Her breath came in rapid pants and seemed inadequate to fill her lungs.

She was saved from embarrassing herself by the arrival of another customer, who came rushing in, explaining hurriedly that he'd just got off the train from Manhattan and realized that this was his wife's birthday and that he didn't have a present.

"I'm sure we'll find something she'll like," Shay said calmly. She risked a glance at Ian, who was smiling at her as though they were sharing a secret.

By the time she'd helped the man with his selection and gift-wrapped it for him, her nerves were frazzled. She followed the customer to the door and turned the needlepoint
closed
sign to the outside. "That's the last customer I want to deal with today," she said, leaning wearily against the door. "Is your offer for that cup of coffee still good?"

"You bet."

She secured the shop for the night and gathered her purse and jacket. When they stood facing each other on the sidewalk, he asked, "Where to?"

"Oh, let's see." She hadn't given any thought to where they could go. There weren't many restaurants in town, and she couldn't think of any place suitable. "Well…"

"Do you have a coffee pot?"

Startled, she looked up at him. "You mean at home?" He nodded, and her heart tripped over itself on its rolling journey to the bottom of her stomach. "Yes. Would you just as soon go to my apartment?"

"That sounds like the best solution. Unless you'd rather not."

"No, no that's fine. It's just…"

"What?" he probed.

She shook her head. "Nothing." He'd taken her totally by surprise. Should a man in his position invite himself to a single woman's apartment? "I walk from here. Is that okay?"

"Fine."

The light was still strong, although shadows were lengthening. Shops along the sidewalk were closing for the night. Commuters were rushing home. Walking beside Ian, Shay was seeing things she'd never noticed before, hearing sounds, paying attention to smells. It was as though all her senses had suddenly awakened after a long sleep. She breathed deeply, knowing a full and satisfied feeling inside her that she hadn't known for years. Was it contentment, joy, peace? She wasn't sure, and its name didn't matter. She only wanted to take delight in it while it remained.

To fill the silence between them as they strolled toward her apartment, she said, "Mom told me about the broken air conditioner in your church. Did you get it fixed?"

"With my own bare hands and a few choice words." He laughed.

"You're kidding!"

"About what? Fixing the air conditioner or the few choice words?"

"Both."

He regaled her with anecdotes about his constant hassles with the querulous air conditioner, and by the time they reached her apartment they were laughing easily.

"Here we are."

The stately old house was set like a matriarch on a tree-shaded lot in the middle of a street lined with similar houses. It had three stories, if you didn't count the basement. Tall windows flanked a front door decorated with a heavy brass knocker. The wide front porch was lined with thick shrubbery. The roof was dramatically pitched and gabled.

"All this belongs to you?" Ian asked in surprise.

Shay laughed. "Just the corner apartment on the second floor. Come on."

She led him up the steps to the porch and through the front door. Their footsteps were muted by an ancient Persian runner as they climbed the majestic staircase to the second floor.

At the landing Shay turned toward the door with a discreet 2 stenciled on it. After unlocking it, she went inside ahead of him. She gave a hasty glance around and breathed a sigh of relief. She'd left things in some order that morning.

"This is great," Ian said with admiration as he looked around him. The room was positioned in the corner of the old house, and its two bay windows overlooked the front lawn and were filled with plants. There were no curtains or drapes. The living area was spacious. Shay's knack with color was reflected in the tastefully chosen sofa and easy chair, the framed prints on the walls, the rug covering only a center square of the oak floor, and the variety and combinations of textures. "I like it," Ian said. "Does the fireplace work?"

"When I can afford the wood," she replied. "The bedroom's through there." She pointed toward a partially closed door. "It has a wide window, too. And the kitchen is through here. I'll get the coffee started."

Nervously she scurried toward the tiny kitchen, dropping her purse and jacket on a chair. It had suddenly occurred to her that Ian Douglas was the first man ever to stand inside the door of her apartment. Many had begged for the privilege. All had been refused admittance.

"How long have you lived here?" Ian called.

"Since—" She bit off her sentence, then realized that that kind of reticence was silly. "Since my divorce. About three years."

He followed her into the kitchen. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that he'd taken off his coat. Her fingers fumbled as she spooned coffee grounds into the filtered cup of the coffeemaker.

"Why didn't you choose to live in New York? Isn't that where you lived when you were married?" He took a seat at the round table, which was only large enough for two chairs.

His ease at making himself at home discomfited her. She was sure this was only a friendly call, perhaps to smooth the troubled waters between them for their parents' sake. He looked upon her as a stepsister whom he'd have to learn to tolerate.

But she didn't see him that way. His presence was crowding her heart and mind just as his large body was crowding her tiny kitchen. Up until then her small domain had remained inviolate, as had her heart. Now neither would ever be the same.

Squelching her nervousness, she replied to his question, "I like New York City. I enjoy going periodically. It's exciting, energizing. But I'm always glad to come back home." She took cups and saucers from the cabinet, trying hard not to look at the long legs stretched out over the linoleum floor. She tried even harder not to remember how they looked in tennis shorts. "Besides, if I lived in the city, an apartment like this, even if I could find one, would be exorbitantly expensive. And I prefer trees and grass to concrete. Do you use cream or sugar?"

"Black."

The coffeemaker seemed determined not to drip. She glared at it, willing it to work so she wouldn't have to stand there not knowing what to do with her hands.

"You don't have any paintings or photographs of yourself on the walls."

Turning in the narrow space to face him, she brushed her skirt against his pants leg. "No, I don't." Was he going to start mocking her again, taunting her, rebuking her for her modeling? "There's one painting in the bedroom. I gave it to Anson for a wedding present. When we split up, I asked for it back."

"Yes. I can see why you'd want to do that." He avoided her eyes, and she turned back to the coffeemaker.

"It's ready," she said, hoping her relief wasn't too obvious. She set the tray on the table and poured him a cup of coffee. When she handed it to him, the tips of their fingers touched. Her eyes flew to his, and he looked up at her at the same time.

"Sit down, Shay," he said softly.

Not even thinking to argue, entranced and bewildered by the emotions rioting inside her, she sank into the opposite chair. Her eyes remained riveted on his.

"Do you want some coffee?" he asked.

Shaking her head, she said almost soundlessly, "No, I don't think so."

He looked down into his cup, but she didn't think he was really seeing it. She had the distinct impression that he was gathering his thoughts, outlining what he was about to say. She stared at the top of his head, remembering the splendor of having his hair curl around her fingers. The caress had been far too brief. She longed to touch those silky black strands again.

"I know you were surprised that I came to see you today," he began.

"Yes."

"We didn't exactly part on the best of terms, did we?"

"No."

He looked up at her then, his eyes fiery. "I'm undergoing a tremendous conflict in my life, Shay."

She licked her lips. "I don't understand. What does that have to do with me?"

He grinned abashedly. "You're the conflict. It's not in keeping with what I profess, with what I am, that I continue to think of you the way I do." She thought she might suffocate from the emotion lodged in her throat. "Do you know what I'm telling you?"

She made a shrugging gesture with her shoulders that could be either affirmation or denial, but was certainly not conviction. She could barely hear his softly spoken words over the pulse drumming in her ears. She clenched clammy hands together on the tabletop.