Authors: Anne Stuart
Banish Misfortune (21 page)
"He's not doing well," Elyssa said in a whisper.
"You said it was near the end, Elyssa," Jessica reminded her.
"I mean Springer. We only told him this week. He got here yesterday and he's barely said a word to either of us the whole time. He's sat by Ham's bed hour after hour being scrupulously polite, but I'm afraid of what's going to happen."
"Why should anything happen? He's been estranged from Ham for decades—he probably just doesn't care all that much." Jessica said.
A small sad smile lit Elyssa's pale face. "You don't think that any more than I do."
"I don't know what I think. I don't really know Springer all that well."
"No, I suppose you don't," Elyssa said with a sigh. "So tell me, how's that marvelous baby of yours? It must have broken your heart to leave him, even for just a few days."
"It was," she said with a wry smile.
"What does he look like? He must have blond hair and blue eyes like you and Peter. Does he smile yet?"
"Of course. He's been smiling since he was two weeks old. Didn't Ham show you the picture I sent him?" She carefully avoided any confirmation of her son's appearance.
"You sent him a picture of Matthew? How sweet of you, darling. He must have forgotten about it—he wanders a great deal, I'm afraid." She sighed. "We haven't said anything about Matthew to Springer. Ham's probably forgotten, and I decided that should be up to you."
"I appreciate that. I... I don't see any reason to mention it. It's not really any of his business, is it?"
And Elyssa, whom Jessica had always thought she'd fooled, looked her clearly in the eye and said, "Is it?"
Ham, bless his heart, moved then, and Jessica looked away, not answering the question. "Hi, there, you old reprobate. Did you like my Matt Decker?"
He managed a travesty of his old grin. "Which one? Volume ninety-six, ninety-seven, or the baby? I like all three, but I prefer the baby most of all."
"You didn't tell me Jessie sent you a picture of him, Ham," Elyssa chided softly. "I would have liked to have seen my godchild."
"Didn't I? Must have slipped my mind. Are you going to tell my son about him, Jessie?"
"No. What business is it of his?" The question came out more sharply than she would have wished, but Ham looked pleased.
"You tell me, little one." Before she could retort he moved his sunken eyes to his ex-wife's worried face. "Where is Springer now, Lyss?"
"Gone somewhere. I heard the front door slam just after you fell asleep."
"Did I fall asleep? I seem to do that far too often." He sighed, and Jessica could hear the faint, imperceptible struggle for breath. "Come back later, Jessie. I promise I won't tease you about Matthew. Sometime when I'm feeling better and Springer isn't in the house." He winked, as if sharing some great, naughty secret, just the two of them. "Go along, you two. You must have some gossip to catch up on. And I have some sleep..." His voice faded away, and without another word Elyssa caught her sleeve and motioned her out of the room.
"He doesn't look that bad, Elyssa," Jessica said, aware of the hollow lie of her words. "Surely he's got some time left. I didn't see any machines, any medicines. He can't be that bad."
"He won't have the machines, Jessie, and he stopped the medicine last week. He stopped eating this week, and he'd been in a light coma until Springer arrived."
"Oh, no."
"Don't fool yourself, he's dying, Jessie. It won't do any good to deny it, and he won't let you. I wouldn't have asked you to come down if he had any time left. He doesn't." She smiled, a distant, sad smile. "He's in a lot of pain, Jessie. Don't hold him back."
Springer was back, charging through the front door and giving them only a cursory glance. "He's asleep again?" he questioned. The words weren't precisely terse—just short and to the point, either missing or ignoring the pleading pain in his mother's eyes.
"He just drifted off. Where did you go, darling?"
"Around the comer for cigarettes," he replied, his eyes glancing over Jessica and then skittering away.
"I thought you gave them up."
"I did."
"When did you start again?" Elyssa persisted, and Jessica wanted to tell her to stop, to leave him be.
"Five minutes ago," Springer drawled, and moved past the two women to his father's sickroom.
Hamilton MacDowell died two days later, at three o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been slipping in and out of a coma for the past twenty-four hours, barely aware of his family and friends around him. His breathing became sporadic, shallow and then deep, and he moved restlessly on the bed, as if eager to rid himself of his pain-racked, skeletal body. The shuddering breaths grew farther apart, and then they stopped altogether, and the silence of the room was deafening.
Jessica didn't dare move from her spot by the door. Springer and Elyssa were on either side of the bed, watching intently, until finally Elyssa raised her head, tears streaming down her calm, almost relieved face. "I think he's gone, Springer."
Springer met her gaze with a distant, remote calm. "Yes." He rose then, moving away from the bed, from his father, from Elyssa. "I guess that's that," he drawled, his dark, unfathomable eyes sweeping over Jessica's stunned figure. "Do you want me to call Dr. Marlin?"
Elyssa was watching him with confusion and concern and the beginning of anger stirring in her eyes. "I'd rather take care of it," she said, the trace of anger coming through her clipped voice.
"In that case, I think I'll go out. I'm not used to sitting still for so long." He stretched, a graceful, unconcerned gesture. Jessica continued to look at him out of wondering eyes. "I'll be at the club if you need me. Don't expect me for dinner—I'll just get something out." He walked out of the room without a backward glance, either at the two women or at his father.
Elyssa rose from her chair, slowly, painfully, as if every muscle in her body had been pummeled, as if she were a hundred years old. "I didn't think he still hated him that much," she said in a muffled tone of voice.
Jessica moved then, putting a supporting arm under Elyssa's suddenly frail frame. "Come into the living room and I'll get you some tea."
"I'd like a drink, I think," she said in a muffled tone of voice. "Something very strong and dark. Could you do that for me, darling, while I call Dr. Marlin?"
"Certainly. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have me call him?"
"No, I want to do it." For a brief moment the perfect serene beauty of her face crumpled in an ugly mask of pain. A moment later it was gone, and she was as placidly beautiful as always. "Did he really not care, Jessie?"
Jessica wasn't quite sure how to answer her plaintive question. "You know him far better than I do. What do you think?"
"I can't believe a child of mine could still be so un-forgiving," she whispered. "But at this point I don't know. I just don't know."
The old town house
seemed very quiet for a place in the heart of New York City's Upper East Side. Jessica could hear the sound of the traffic, the intermittent honking of horns, the occasional sirens slicing through the thick night air. She could hear the hum of the central air conditioning, the distant ring of someone else's telephone. But at a little past midnight it was very, very still in Hamilton MacDowell's town house, the house bought and supported by
The Slaughterer.
Jessica had developed more than an affection for Matt Decker, despite his self-righteous attitudes and his stridently right-wing politics. She'd given him a bit more humanity in volumes ninety-six and ninety-seven, and a lot more sex. In some ways she thought of this house as Decker's, now that Hamilton was gone.
And he was gone. Jessica knew full well that accounted for most of the feeling of emptiness about the place, the feeling of silence. Elyssa was bedded down for the night with a heavy tranquilizer and a good book and Springer was still out. She'd called Marianne, to tell her about Ham. She didn't know whether she could leave Elyssa quite so soon, but hoped she could catch the late afternoon plane back to Vermont the following day. She missed her home and friends, but most of all she missed her baby.
Not that it was her home any more, she thought, taking a sip of the Benedictine that was one of the few liqueurs she could stomach. If he'd left the house to Iilyssa, she would have no problem. If it was left to
Johnson Endicott or, even worse, to Springer, she may as well kiss Vermont good-bye. Or at least that house.
Now wasn't the time to worry about such things, she told herself sternly, draining the Benedictine and rising on slightly unsteady feet. It had been a long, painful day, but her nerves were still strung up tightly despite the advanced stage of exhaustion her body was in. She wouldn't sleep, she knew it, despite the aid of the Benedictine. She could always wake Elyssa up and avail herself of her offer of a sleeping pill, but that would only be a last resort. Elyssa needed her sleep more than Jessica did.
Maybe a hot shower. Maybe some long, boring book to wipe out the thoughts and memories and worries. Maybe some food. No, that wouldn't help. For the first time in a year her appetite had disappeared, aggravated by Springer's distant presence. She had always thought it a marvelous joke of nature, that pregnancy had cured her nausea, not caused it. But it had been all she could do to keep her dinner down last night as she avoided Springer's dark, troubled eyes.
And that was her problem tonight. She might as well admit it—she had seen, or thought she'd seen, past the mask of calm on Springer MacDowell's dark, aloof face. There was no way she was going to get to sleep tonight until she heard Springer's footsteps going past her second-floor bedroom door as they had for two nights now, heard his sneakered feet bounding up the third-floor flight of stairs. And then maybe she'd rest, secure in the knowledge that he was all right.
Jessica didn't bother to ask herself why it mattered. She only knew it did and was too weary of fighting to deny it. But there was no guarantee that he would come back at all tonight. And if she was going to be in any kind of shape tomorrow she'd better try to get some sleep.
She moved silently through the house, turning off lights, leaving one small lamp burning in the hall to guide Springer's way. She stopped for a moment in the kitchen, remembering with a surprising smile the night she first saw Springer. She shook her head in disbelief. She wouldn't have thought she'd have such fond memories for the start of an essentially painful relationship. But it had been the start of a change for her, a change that had saved her life, and she couldn't resent it or him any longer.
Flicking off the overhead light, she opened the door to the back stairway, then stopped dead still. There was a noise up there, a soft, muffled sound that she couldn't place. She moved her hand to the light switch, when his voice floated down to her, husky, almost unrecognizable. Except that, of course, she recognized him on that midnight-dark stairway.
"Don't turn on the light," he ordered, and the sound was choked. She waited for him to tell her to go away, but he said nothing more, and she could hear the heavy, strangled sound of his breathing.
Slowly she moved up the stairs, feeling her way in the darkness. He was halfway up, his head buried in his arms, his big body racked with sobs. And the last traces of ice around Jessica's heart melted.
"Oh, Springer," she whispered brokenly, putting her arms around his shaking body. "Don't cry, darling."
But she didn't mean it, and he didn't listen. He needed to cry. He put his shaking arms around her slender figure, holding her so tightly she thought her ribs might break, and he wept harsh, racking tears into her cloud of hair. His tears were wet on her face, wet on her shoulder, and his body shook in her arms as she soothed him with mumbled, meaningless words.
She knew immediately when it all changed. She could feel the tension in his arms increase, feel the hands that were loose on her back begin a subtle caress. And then he broke free of her comforting embrace, standing up so swiftly she nearly lost her balance. But he caught her deftly, his hand like a band of iron around her wrist, and a moment later he was dragging her up the stairs. She tripped once, skinning her knee, but he didn't even pause, just jerked her onward. And then they were in his darkened bedroom, the door slammed shut behind them, and he had pushed her up against the wall and was kissing her with an angry fierceness that brought her to a state of arousal and panic.
"Springer," she whispered against his mouth, a plea, a sanction. But he ignored it, his mouth plundering hers with a fierce violence that momentarily panicked her. She struggled in his arms, but he only used his larger body to press her back against the wall, pinning her there while his mouth plundered hers.
"Don't fight me," he murmured against the side of her neck, and his voice was raw. "Jessie, please don't fight me. I need you; I need you more than I've ever needed anyone in my life. Please, Jessie."
The last of her panic vanished. She had needed him so long and so much that she hadn't been able to admit it even to herself. And now, suddenly, miracle of miracles he needed her, needed the solace her body and her love could offer him. And she opened to him willingly, gladly taking the excuse he offered her.
Not another word was spoken as he stripped off her clothing, the jeans, the loose cotton tunic, the wispy bra and panties landing in a pile on the floor. She could be glad the wall supported her, otherwise there was a good chance her knees might give way. His mouth and hands were everywhere on her, feverish, demanding, arousing her and arousing him to a level past thoughts and memories. He was rough in his need, rough in his haste, but the thoughtlessly delivered pain only made her love him more. He was lost in mute anguish, and she could soothe him, bring him sweet forgetfulness if only for a night. She reached out her hands, tentative hands that slowly became more sure as she gave herself up to his overwhelming need.
He half carried, half pulled her over to the bed, that huge bed she'd slept in at Christmastime, alone except for the baby in her belly. She tumbled with him onto the rumpled blue sheets, her hands eager on his warm, smooth skin as he quickly shed his clothes. And then he was on her, in her, surrounding and encompassing her as she welcomed him into her arms, her body, her heart and soul. She shivered and trembled beneath him, her hands clinging desperately to his damp body. It was all heat and darkness, the salty taste of sweat and love and sorrow wrapped up into a heated ball of passion. Jessica could feel it coiling like a snake in her belly, building, climbing, ready to strike. Her fingers clutched his shoulders, slipping on the wet skin, her mouth was buried against his shoulder, and still she could feel his tears on her face.
His hands slid under her hips, cupping her rounded buttocks, pulling her closer against him. She heard a soft moan in the stillness of the room, mingling with the soft rustle of the sheets, and she knew it was her voice, her moan of pleasure and despair against him. She brought her knees up around him, cradling him, holding him tightly as he strained against her, with no thought for her own pleasure, only his surcease from the pain that was driving him. She held him, her voice whispering against the silky black hair that was plastered to his skull, soft gentle words, meaningless, loving words, that were suddenly strangled in her throat when the first shocking wave of pleasure hit her. She was dimly aware of the arms tightening around her, holding her as the second wave hit, and then everything receded into the blackness of the hot velvet night. In the distance she could hear him, feel the sudden rigidity in his body as he joined her in that subliminal release, and a small distant part of her called out to him. But he was too caught up in his race for forgetting, and there was no way she could reach him, except in his bed.
Her breathing was slowly returning to normal, her senses reacting to the room around her, the darkness and heat of the third-floor bedroom, the warmth of the body beside her. She could tell from his breathing that he was asleep, and she turned her head an imperceptible bit to stare at him, lying facedown in exhausted sleep. His eyes were swollen, his face gentle in sleep and looking younger than the thirty-six years Elyssa had attributed to him. The silky black hair was damp with sweat and plastered against his forehead, his strong back was rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. She could smell the brandy that she had tasted on his mouth—he would sleep very soundly for a good long time.
Slowly, carefully she rose on one elbow. She should go back to her room, escape from this monumental error in a line of endless stupid mistakes. But he'd told her he needed her, he'd begged her to stay with him. And she, poor fool, took the excuse with an open heart just waiting to be smashed.
Might as well be hanged for a sheep as well as a lamb, she thought sleepily. It was bad enough she had gone to bed with him so readily—it could hardly matter that she stayed. Leaning over, she gently kissed the strand of silky dark hair away from his forehead. She had a curious sense of d
éjŕ vu
—how many times had she kissed Matthew's forehead with the silky dark strands? She moved her mouth down to kiss his, lightly tasting his lips. He stirred for a moment, and she told herself he didn't know where he was, who he was with. Nevertheless, when he reached out a strong arm and pulled her next to his sleeping body, she went with no resistance at all.