Tennessee Touch, Sisters of Spirit #6 (19 page)

He didn't say much after that, his hands woven into her thick hair, his lips capturing the sweetness from hers as if he wished to take all he could with him. "This parting is killing me" he gasped as he let her go, yet still holding onto her arms. "I even dream about being with you...and wake up to find you six or eight hours away on the other side of the continent."

"Strange. In my dreams you are always just out of reach, calling me...but I can't find you."

He laughed. "I don't know what that means, but at least you dream of me. Alison?" His voice dropped, quietly serious.

"Yes?"

"You like me, a little?" Casually asked, but the magnitude of the question was revealed as he held his breath waiting for her answer. His hands came up to cup her face gently as he framed the question, eyes intent upon her face.
So he needed to know, too
.

"I like you...a lot," she admitted.

He smiled broadly, teeth flashing white in his tanned face, eyes reflecting happiness. "I guess I can't ask for much more, right now. I'll try to get out as often as I can. Think of me." He tipped her chin up to kiss her, a butterfly touch that proclaimed how much he was beginning to care; much more than a passionate embrace at this time. Either he was an expert actor or else she was beginning to mean as much to him as he to her.

"I will."

"Darling—" He stopped, interrupting himself. Whatever he had to say was left unspoken as he looked steadily at her, his eyes absorbing all they could in the time they had, and again she had the feeling that he was memorizing her features to carry with him. Wind-tossed hair and all. He started to open the door, stopped for one last kiss that continued for longer than they intended, before they finally broke apart and hurried outside.

"I'll call you," he promised as she joined Chantal, and it eased her distress, giving her something to look forward to. Ken was standing in the shelter of the building, waiting patiently, and he waved to her as he joined Logan.

"Should we go," asked Chantal, not moving from her position under the eaves, "or wait for them to refuel?"

The idea hadn't occurred to Alison. She turned and saw the two men enter the plane together. "I guess they'll refuel somewhere else." They watched as the small plane taxied gracefully out onto the runway, then lifted off into the evening.

The two drove silently back to Chantal's apartment, each respecting the other's need to relive the day's moments privately. Alison remained suspended in a warm glow of happiness until an irate motorist honked at her for stopping on a green light.

Startled, Chantal reminded Alison that she was driving. "Keep your mind on the road till you get home. Then you can remember all the tender little things he said."

"It was all highly intelligent conversation."

"I bet it was. You should look at your face. You probably talked loving nonsense."

"We do not talk loving nonsense...all the time. Why, don't you realize that a ring of gold in a swine's snout is like a...like a beautiful woman that lacks—something? I forgot." She collapsed in giggles.

 "Watch the road. Much good you are. No, I did not. A swine's snout?"

Alison couldn't stop, her laughter renewed by the expression on Chantal's face. "It's a proverb."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No. Really."

"What brought that up?"

"He was telling me, umm...some loving nonsense."

"You're crazy!" Chantal threw her head back, working her hands through her long hair. Somewhere during the trip back, she must have taken out the braid. Or Ken had. Alison wondered, but didn't ask. Friendship had its limitations.

"Well, what did you talk about?" she asked Chantal.

"This and that."

"That and this," Alison teased. "Did you find out what he does for a living? He never did answer me."

"No. I was too busy answering his questions."

"Did you find out his name?"

"Ken Earle." Chantal looked puzzled, her fine brows highly arched. "You knew that."

"Ah, but I know more than you do," Alison bragged gently. "His full name is James Kenneth Earle. Logan told me."

"James Kenneth Earle.... Funny. That sounds familiar. Like I've heard it before. And their faces seem familiar, too, like I've seen them somewhere. I wonder—"

"Not me. I've never seen either one of them before."

"Ken's going to try to come next time with Logan," Chantal stated, a satisfied smile playing over features that had always been healthy looking—a clear and sparkling complexion—but had now become lit from within with a delicate glow, illuminating her whole personality.

At that moment Alison realized how truly vulnerable her friend was. She was liable to fall madly in love with the first promising man who came along and who could really communicate with her, who showed an interest in her, who made her feel at ease. Like Ken. And if the fellow was just showing a superficial interest and the love was one-sided, then Chantal was in for a very rough time. She wasn't the type to do anything half-way. Art or living or loving; she submerged herself completely. "Do you want him to?"

Chantal's eyes sparked with interest. "Yes. Very much. And it was his suggestion, not mine."

"It's all been reversed. The women are so bold there's no courting left. The way they chase a guy; we get to feeling we can't breathe." It was one week later and they were discussing the pros and cons of modern-day courtship. The four of them had ordered pizza delivered and were waiting for it in Alison's apartment.

They were all casually dressed in jeans and sweaters, although Ken had a pink polo shirt on under his gray sweater. They had kicked off their shoes and Logan and Alison were sharing the couch, while Ken had pulled Chantal down with him on the beanbag.

"Speak for yourself, Ken." Logan said, moving his arm behind Alison and pulling her up against his side. "Look how hard I had to work to get Alison's attention. Even now she won't move close to me unless I physically reel her in."

"She's different," Chantal declared with a wave of her hand in dismissal. "Alison wouldn't chase anyone—ever. Her mom raised her to be well-mannered and a lady. She'd die before she'd chase a man."

"Chantal!" Alison protested, embarrassed, although what her friend said was true. She wasn't hesitant or shy, but deeply ingrained in her character was her mother's early training consisting of countless admonitions that a lady didn't do certain things. One of those was to pursue a man in any way. Even with just friends present, like now, she would feel more comfortable sitting a respectable distance away from Logan, politely poised, mindful of appearances. Open displays of affection, like kissing in public, were strictly taboo.

Chantal continued, her tone persuasive. "You know I'm right, Alison. You have to ward off passes from fellows all the time, so it doesn't matter to you. Myself, if I wanted a man's attention, I'd have to flat out chase him down the street."

They laughed while denying her unflattering description of herself. “Then we're two of a kind," Logan said to her. "I'm always making the passes. It's Ken who goes around gathering them in. They get made to him."

 With just one bruise showing and only three deep abrasions on his knuckles, Logan appeared almost handsome today. He still looked like a street fighter but he wouldn't terrify anyone. At least not in broad daylight, Alison amended to herself. Today Ken had been the one who had limped slowly into her apartment and eased himself gently down beside Chantal.

"Do you two fight each other?' she asked Ken.

Ken shifted uneasily on the bag, trying to hide the discomfort his sore spots were giving him. "No. We're the good guys. But we do enjoy a hard-fought card game. Do you two know how to play Pinochle?"

"Sort of. You want to play partners?"

"Of course."

"I don't know the rules for that one," Chantal asserted. "Let's play something more lively. How about the game where you draw pictures. You've got a set, haven't you, Alison?"

"Yes. But you always win."

"Then that's what we'll play,” Ken said. “It's been some time since I've whupped Logan."

Alison went to find the game and the pizza arrived. It was covered with cheese and meat and olives, and emitting the tangy odor of oregano and tomato sauce. They ate it while it was hot, then started the lively guessing game. Not surprisingly, both men were highly competitive and pushed the rules to the maximum, making Alison haul out the rule book ever so often to keep them within the limits.

It was fun, the fellows cheating outrageously whenever they could get away with it, so that soon Alison and Chantal found themselves doing the same in self-defense. No one cared who won under those conditions. But as usual, there came a time, too soon, when the men had to leave and hurry back to the airport.

Chantal and Alison saw them safely off at Boeing Field, then drove home, both with the let-down feeling of loss.

"This is terrible," said Alison, as she maneuvered through the traffic. "I hate taking Logan to the airport. The shortage of time hangs over every meeting we have."

"I agree. It's only the second time I've seen Ken, but you know that clock is steadily ticking away in the background. You feel like you need to make every second count."

"At least Logan calls me regularly now," Alison sighed happily. She was thoroughly enjoying those long evening conversations with the man from Tennessee. Sometimes he had a poem he read her, other times they argued politics. At least they were both for the same party. Most of their likes were poles apart, but there were a few things they agreed on.

"What makes you think Ken doesn't call me?" Chantal demanded, her high eyebrows arched in question.

"He does?" At Chantal's decisive nod, Alison asked, curiosity aroused for they had only met the once before, "Since when?"

"I gave him my phone number at Ocean Shores."

He was a fast worker.
"And?"

"He calls every day."

So that was why Chantal had been so relaxed with Ken this evening. Not once had she frozen up on him and Alison had decided he was a miracle worker. He wasn't; he'd been calling and doing some groundwork.

"You know," Chantal said thoughtfully, "I've a continuous nagging feeling that I've seen those two before, but I can't think where."

"Still?"

"Yeah. I'll figure it out sometime."

"Huh. Let me know if you do," Alison remarked skeptically.

As the year progressed, the weather deteriorated into winter. It wasn't bad in Seattle, but the rest of the country was pictured all too often on the weather map as colored blue-green for cold and showing little snow symbols. Looking at them, Alison worried about Logan's flying; he was experienced, she knew, and a good pilot, but still the thought of him in that little plane for hours bothered her.

When he called at night she sometimes asked about the weather, and depending upon where he was, he would tell her everything from great to terrible. He assured her he used commercial flights some of the time; probably hearing the concern in her voice since she never said anything directly.

Alison began to discover little packages in the mail; first the country-western tapes he said he'd send and then later, other things; little gifts, some funny, some practical. A toy airplane, like his. A key ring with a miniature soccer ball on it. A necklace and earrings of highly polished sea shells. A silk scarf the color of her eyes. Driving gloves, fur lined and soft. Several books of poetry. A small can of Mace, purse-sized, to replace the one she’d used on him.