Blessing in Disguise (35 page)

In the center of the room, against the built-in bookshelves, sat the antique maple rocker that had seen her through the nursing of two babies. Across from it, separated by a worn Bokhara rug, was a low-slung canvas-backed deck chair in pale-green and white stripes, and a futon covered in faded green Sea Island cotton. For a change, too, Florene, had straightened up. No toys and crayons scattered around, tabletops and walls wiped clean of smudge marks left by sticky little hands.

Florene didn’t need a crystal ball to know I’d be asking Ben back here after dinner.

She saw Benjamin’s gaze resting on her Steinway, bought at an auction for next to nothing, then stripped and rebuilt by a friend of Marcus’s—yards of ebony so brilliantly glossed she could see the cluster of rice-paper lanterns, arranged overhead in place of the old chandelier she had taken down, skimming like pale ghosts along its surface as she moved toward it.

“Do you play?” he asked. “Sorry, dumb question. Somehow I don’t think of you as someone to own a thing like this just for show.”

“I play,” she said. “Does that surprise you?”

I scrubbed toilets, washed floors, shopped for old lady Halliday to pay for lessons, and I’ll bet your rich daddy and mommy couldn’t shove them down your throat.

“I don’t think anything about you would surprise me,” he told her.

Nola felt chagrined. Was it his fault he’d been born white and well-off? She must be getting irritable with age ... or was it just that she’d been too long without a man?

A whole year, fourteen months really, counting the two she and Marcus had stopped making love before he moved out. And before that, what kind of love was it, lying under a man, feeling as if you’re being
shrunk
somehow?

And now, why
this
man?

She thought back to their dinner, Ben asking whether she preferred Italian or French, then confessing he’d made reservations at two restaurants so she could choose. And then, at Raoul’s, instead of showing off with the wine list, he’d quietly asked the sommelier’s advice—though it was obvious he knew what the guy was talking about.

Was that what had impressed her? Not really. What she’d found endearing was his asking her what books she enjoyed reading, and where she liked to go on vacation (“Rome,” she’d told him, “but I’ve only been there in my fantasies”), and how she felt about that controversial new office building going up on East Eighty-ninth.

She’d liked it when he teased her into confessing her astrological sign, then had sent her into gales of laughter with a slew of made-up Gemini attributes. Best of all was that he hadn’t touched her. Not once. No meaningful glances across the table while groping for her hand. No happening-to-brush-up-against-her-leg. No fumbling kiss when they got into his car.

Maybe that was why she wanted him now.

The smartest thing for her to do, she thought, would be to make up some excuse, tell him she was fresh out of coffee ... or that any minute the girls would be back. Or the truth, that she was bone-tired.

Right now, she could feel Ben poised expectantly beside her. But she knew that, if she sat and played the music sitting up there, Schubert’s Impromptu, Opus 90 No. 3, so exquisite and sensuous, she’d be lost.

“Do
you
play?” she asked him.

“I took lessons in grade school,” he told her, running a thumbnail lightly over the keyboard and sending up a rippling sound, like running water. “Right up until my mother caught me smoking pot with my teacher, Mr. Ortiz. She threatened to have him deported.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He kept telling her he was from Cleveland. He was
born
in this country, for Chrissakes. But she wouldn’t listen. My mother thinks, if your name ends with a ‘z,’ it must be on a green card.”

He looked so artless, leaning back against the belly of the Steinway, where it curved in like a woman’s waist. Wearing dungarees and a pressed blue-and-white shirt under a gray wool sport jacket that had probably cost as much as he earned in a week as an editor. Yet, as she watched him run his hand through hair even darker and curlier than her own, she caught a glimpse of that lost-boy look in his eye defying her to send him packing.

Damn.

How dare he do this to her? How dare she let him?

Then Nola found herself sinking onto the piano bench, her long fingers finding the notes, releasing them into the still, poised whiteness that surrounded her. She sensed, rather than saw, Benjamin grow very intent, his presence seeming to stretch out like a shadow, long and thin and sharp, piercing her. The music flowed through her ... over her ... filling the air with its sweetness.

She raised her eyes to meet his still, clear gaze, and saw that he wanted her—as much as, maybe even more than she wanted him.

Then he was behind her, his fingers smooth and cool against the nape of her neck, his thumbs moving down her spine, caressing each vertebra. She shuddered. Lord, it’d been so long ... too long. ...

Waiting until it made sense, or until they’d been out on a proper number of dates, none of that would have mattered. As she felt him bending to kiss her neck, the heat of him, trapped between their two bodies, sudden and nearly overwhelming. Nola knew that wanting like this—it just
was.

The low faint humming of the piano seemed to fill the stillness until she felt herself lifted by it ... embraced by it and by him ... each movement, each breath, carried forth into the room like a note, round and distinct. She felt his mouth on hers, soft and trembling. She tasted him, but could not remember another taste like this—a kind of sweet sharpness at the back of her jaw, like biting into green fruit. She was floating, way up high somewhere, and no last-minute reprieve was going to rescue her now.

“Would it do any good, my telling you to go?” she murmured against him, the stubble along his jaw stinging her lips, which now felt a little bruised, swollen somehow.

“I’d only come back.” He gave a low, quavery laugh, perhaps to mask his own nervousness.

Then she was leading him into the bedroom, not bothering to switch on any lights. There was only the reflected glow from the street, outlining the window grate. A path of pale light lay across the carpet, spliced with rungs of shadow.

Buttons. So many, she thought, as she fumbled with the front of his shirt, which seemed to sprout a new button for every one she managed to unfasten. At last, feeling the cold metal of his belt buckle under her fingers, she imagined she was him; she was inside his head, wanting her, impatient for her to end this awkward mating dance. And in her belly the pressure she was feeling rode down hard, igniting a sudden, frightening heat.

There’s no going back now.

“Your turn,” he said softly, plucking at her sweater, skimming it over her head as she lifted her arms.

He unhooked her bra easily. She closed her eyes as he began to caress her breasts, first with his hands, gently, weighing their heaviness against his palm while letting his fingers ride up over her tightening nipples. Then with his mouth.

God. Oh, God. Had Marcus ever touched her with such tenderness? Had it ever felt this good? Never ... never ...

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I’m not cold. It’s just ...”

“I know.”

“I’m not very good at this, Ben. I don’t have affairs.”

“You’re having one now.”

“I’m all wrong for you.”

“I’ll stop if you want me to. Is that what you want?”

“Kiss me. Please, just kiss me.”

His arms curving about her now, not asking, not seeking, just
there.
Their bodies coming together as perfectly, as neatly, as two hands joined in prayer. She guided his hand between her legs, and heard him moan, his fingers thrusting into her.

He took her against the wall, all six feet of her, his hands cupped about her buttocks, half-lifting her, one of her legs hooked about his hard shanks, her pelvis tilted up while he eased himself into her ... and drove and drove. ...

She heard someone cry out, and realized it was her.

The darkness turned flat and gray, and an odd humming filled her ears. Starpoints of light glimmered behind her tightly shut eyelids.

The glow in her belly seemed to fill her, radiating upward until she could feel it shooting from the tips of her fingers, the ends of her hair, like sunrays.

“Nola, Nola,” he groaned her name over and over.

Shuddering with a pleasure so exquisite it bordered on pain, she arched to meet his final thrust, feeling it slam through her in a fist of heat that drove her back so hard she felt her skull crack against the wall, and tasted the sweet metallic taste of blood on the back of her tongue.

Nola thought that, if at this moment she were to die from too much all at once, her only regret would be that she couldn’t do it a second time.

Ben waited until they were lying side by side on the bed and her breathing had steadied. He waited until his mind had cleared and he could remember why he was here, why he had to get hold of himself before this glow inside him turned into something else—something he didn’t know how to deal with.

He touched her hair, which was soft and springy as new grass. She smelled sweet like grass, too. He felt something move in his chest, and a lightness pour into him like sunlit air.

Christ, it had been good with her. The best he could ever remember.

She was everything that had been missing in the endless stream of women he’d dated. Strong yet tender, cool to the touch but hot underneath. He couldn’t bear it when women draped themselves all over you after it was over, pestering you with, “How was it, was it good for you? Was it really good? What about when I touched you down there, how was that?”

Nola was silent, except for her breathing.

She didn’t deserve this, him. What the hell was he doing? How could he go through with his scheme now?

He felt himself growing hard again. Jesus. He had to hold himself back from kissing her, from reaching for her and making love to her all over again.

“All right, let’s talk about it.” He spoke softly, aiming his words at a crescent of reflected light shimmering on the ceiling. “Let’s get it out in the open. No matter what I’ve said, you’re still suspicious of me. Because of who I am. Because of Grace; maybe my father, too. If we don’t talk about it, we’re not going to be able to go on from here.”

She let out a deep sigh. “Amen to that.” He could feel her breath against his cheek. “Ben, I’ll be honest with you. It’s never been like that for me. Not ever. But if you’re here for anything but what you see lying next to you then it’s over. Right here. Right now. As of this minute, it never happened.”

“Nola, I won’t lie to you. I know who you are—Grace told me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her dart him a startled look, but before she could say anything he stopped her by lightly squeezing her wrist. “It’s not what you think. She was in shock, and I happened to be there—that’s all. That’s not why I came to see you today,” he lied, blood pounding in his ears like a distant surf.

Nola’s eyes glinted in the darkness. “She must have told you about my father’s letters, too.”

“Yes.” No point in denying it.

“If I handed them over to you right now, would I ever see you again?”

“That’s not a question,” he said. “It sounds more like an indictment.”

“Well?”

“You don’t really think that’s why I’m here, not after ...” Ben swallowed hard, feeling suddenly like the world’s biggest shit. But was it so terrible, going after what he wanted? He wasn’t hurting anyone, and maybe this part—the two of them—maybe he could still hang on to that. He took a breath. “Nola, the truth is, I don’t give a damn about your father’s letters. But while we’re on the subject, I’ll tell you what
I
think.”

“I’m listening.”

“Hang on to them. Don’t let them out of your sight.” He knew she’d been expecting to hear just the opposite, and he could tell from the sharp little intake of breath beside him that he’d thrown her off-guard.

“And if I changed my mind, decided to go public?”

“The press would crucify Truscott. Is that what you want?”

“They’re doing that anyway. Maybe, if people understood
why
he had to cover up the truth about Ned Emory’s death, that it wasn’t just a political necessity, but a
moral
one—he really
cared
about civil rights, Ben. It wasn’t just talk.”

Nola, he realized, was playing devil’s advocate, and for an unsettling moment Ben wondered just who was setting up whom.

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind about cooperating with Grace?” he asked, his heart climbing up into his throat.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” She sounded troubled.

“It’s none of my business,” he said cautiously, “but maybe you should talk to someone before you make up your mind.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. A lawyer maybe. There could be something in it for you.”

“This has nothing to do with money!” She spoke sharply, almost angrily. Then she sighed. “I’m not saying I couldn’t use some extra cash, but I’d sell everything I own before I’d take money for those letters.”

“It was only a sug—”

“Hey, look, there’s no point in our discussing this—it’s too complicated,” she cut him off.

“That’s what you said about me.”

She turned to look at him, her forehead furrowed. “You messing with my head, Ben? That what this Q-and-A is all about?” Her voice was soft, but its message clear:
Back off.

He rolled over, hiking himself up on one elbow so he was looking down at her. “Do what’s best for yourself, Nola. Whatever that is.”

She grabbed his shoulder, the hard tips of her fingers digging into him with surprising strength. “That’s what my ex-husband used to tell me. Only what he thought was best for me was usually what
he
wanted.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Looking at her, at the pale line of her shoulder against the hair spilling down her back, Ben almost believed his own lie. He felt a rush of tenderness ... accompanied by an almost drowning sense of entanglement. Christ. What was he doing? What in God’s name was he doing, getting involved with this woman? He’d hoped he was putting one over on her—but what if it was the other way around? She hadn’t set it purposely, but he sure as hell felt he was in some kind of trap. And maybe he’d never want to get out.