Cast a Pale Shadow (3 page)

Nick Sweets,

Gotta go. Sorry but it would have never worked. Hayley Mills needs me in Hollywood. Seems she can't make a move without me. Ha Ha. I took all the money I could find and the ring. Don't look for me. I'm with Mitch. He wants me. And he seems a little less scary than you sometimes.

 Ciao, Beth

P.S It wasn't yours, you know.

Beth. Wild Beth. With her sweet, little-girl-lost looks and her wanton ways. Beth had found Nicholas when he wasn't looking, when he had made a conscious decision not to look ever again. Not after Janey. It had taken too long to get over Janey, longer even than Cynthia.

He remembered he had scared Janey, too. And now Beth. She had gone off with Mitch because he seemed 'a little less scary...sometimes'. And because Mitch would help her where he could not. With the money and ring, Mitch could buy for her what Nicholas had refused to buy -- a way out of her predicament -- an end to the life that grew within her.

Nicholas suspected it was not his baby she carried, but he had craved the hope of it. A future. Something beyond the darkness that always called to him. A way to a different kind of magic than the one he always sought. But Beth had been in control all along, and just as he had started to feel the crazy part of him, the scary side, slip away, she had left him.

"Gotta go," she said. "Ha ha."

"Mister, if you order me a burger and a Coke, I'll sit with you and -- who knows?" she had said softly with her baby lisp on the night he met her. He remembered how her voice had jolted him out of his reverie, and, at first, for just a second, he had thought it was Janey's.

He had rolled the window down all the way to talk to her, and she had leaned on her elbows to meet him eye to eye. "Are you hungry?"

"A little." She looked half-starved with her large, hazel eyes and sunken cheek  s. She was dressed in some man's old dress shirt, her father's he had supposed at the time. The shirttails stopped just short of her ragged-denim knees. She had a yellow scarf tied around a pert, if scraggly, red ponytail, and she carried a purse that seemed large enough for her to sleep in.

"Get in." Nicholas turned on his headlights to summon the carhop and leaned over to unlock the passenger door for her. "Do you want french fries, too?"

"Yeah, thanks," she said as she scrambled in, pushing her purse to the floor between her legs. There was silence while she settled herself, rooting in the vast caverns of her bag for a coral lipstick, then spreading and blotting it on her lips. A pot of rouge appeared next. Contorting apples into her thin cheeks she patted them with the coloring, blending it lightly over the bridge of her nose and dabbing it on the tiny cleft of her chin. She disposed of her Juicy Fruit gum in the foil wrapper she fished from her shirt pocket, pulled the scarf off, and quickly brushed through her hair until it crackled with static and wisped about her neck in soft, sunset-colored clouds. She studied herself critically in the visor mirror then turned to smile at him. "Don't let the freckles fool you. I'm old enough."

Nicholas frowned and gave his order into the crackling speaker before he responded. "Old enough for what?"

"You know. Whatever. I'm not a street beggar. I intend to pay for my dinner."

"Do you have a name?"

"Elizabeth Barrett Browning," she said, surprising him.

"Oh, a poet."

"Yeah, limericks mostly. I not only write them. I inspire them. Or so I am told."

"And what's become of Robert Browning?"

"A discarded muse. I got tired of counting the ways."

Nicholas appraised her breasts, which made barely perceptible bumps in her loose shirt, and her tiny wrists, which jingled with charm bracelets. "How old is old enough?"

"I could lie and say I was eighteen, but let's just say I'm getting there. Look, if you want your fee up front, we better start now. I like my burgers hot, and they serve fast in this place."

"What is the going rate? Do I get a little more for the fries?" He was amused by her businesslike manner. He was used to shy innocents. She just had the looks of one.

"Nope, one payment for all I can eat." She had unbuttoned her shirt and was wriggling out of her jeans when he stopped her.

"I'll wait. I prefer dessert to appetizers."

"Fair enough. If you trust me. I could just eat and run, you know."

"That would be all right, too."

"Suit yourself, mister."

"Nicholas."

"Is that a first name or a last?"

"First."

"You can call me Beth."

Their meal arrived and Beth attacked it with unrestrained eagerness. "I'll take the onions off. I have to stay kissing-fresh for you, and I'm all out of toothpaste," she said, flinging the rings one by one out the window.

"The onions wouldn't bother me, Beth. But you've decided not to eat and run?"

 She wrestled a huge bite down her throat and sighed. "Maybe. You're such a good cook, maybe I'll finagle breakfast out of you, too"

"When was the last time you had two meals in a row?"

Sipping on her Coke thoughtfully, she answered, "I chased some pigeons away from a doughnut this morning. Only had a few pecks out of it, too." When she saw him grimace, she giggled. "I'm kidding. Don't feel sorry for me. I always eat like this. Whether I had a banquet three hours before or nothing."

"Which was it today?"

"Today, nothing."

They continued to eat in silence for a while. Nicholas did not want to frighten her away by asking too many questions. But he wanted her. He knew from the first that he wanted her. That night in his bed, and the next, and the next. It was usually such a painfully slow process for him. The approach, the waiting, the ever-so-gentle seduction.

Maybe just once, he should try another way, with someone who offered herself immediately, no questions, no promises. Maybe it was just the look of innocence that was important, only the package, not the contents. Beth finished her meal long before he did, and he noticed her struggling to keep from nodding off as she waited for him.

"I can offer you breakfast, if you really want it," he said finally. "Pancakes, or bacon and eggs, or even doughnuts, untouched by pigeon beaks if you prefer."

"A motel?"

"No, my place."

"You're not married?"

"No."

"Okay. Sure. Why not?" She yawned and excused herself for doing it with a shrug. "It'll be nice to spend the night in a real bed for a change."

When the carhop took the tray away, and Nicholas slipped the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, she snuggled up next to him and took his arm off the wheel to wrap around her shoulder. "That's better," she sighed.

By the time they had reached his apartment, she was asleep. She stirred when he disengaged himself and propped her against the back of the seat to get out. "Are we home already?" she asked as she slid willingly into his arms and let him carry her up to the porch.

"Yes, Beth, we're home." She seemed so light and breakable, like a delicate bisque statue. Nicholas unlocked the door and deposited her on his bed then went back for her purse. When he returned, she was curled on her side with her elbow under her head. He gently removed her shoes and socks and tugged the spread and blankets out from under her and tucked them around her. She murmured something he could not understand and turned on her stomach.

Getting a pillow for himself and a blanket out of the closet, he took them to the sofa. He knew very well she could be gone by morning, but he suspected she would insist upon breakfast first. And he would be most willing to provide it. He was used to waiting.

Nicholas woke the next morning to the smell of coffee and Ivory Soap and the feather-light touch of her lips on his brow. Beth knelt on the floor next to the sofa and chuckled when his eyes popped open in surprise, then she sat back on her heels and sipped from the steaming mug she held curled in her baby fingers.

"You'll get a backache sleeping on the sofa, and what good will you be to me then?" She offered the mug to him. "I like a little coffee with my sugar. I'll fix it the way you like it if this ain't right for you."

It was his neck that had stiffened from his night on the sofa, and Nicholas grunted a bit as he eased himself up to take the cup from her. "Good morning. I promised you breakfast." He tried not to let her see him wince at the tooth-tingling sweetness of the brew.

"My promise comes first if you don't mind." Wrapped as she was in an old, wrinkled sweatshirt of his that hung to her knees and bunched at her elbows where she'd pushed up the ragged sleeves, and most likely nothing else, Beth had neither the appearance nor the skills of a seasoned seductress.

Taking the mug from his hand and setting it on the coffee table, she leaned into him. She planted wet, eager kisses on his neck and up his chin. "Oooh, bristle puss," she commented as she brushed her lips along his jaw.

Her words had a childlike timbre that unsettled him, quelling his growing desire. He placed his hands on her shoulders and put her at arm's length away from him. "Beth, you don't have to do this. I am not in the habit of playing house with hungry little girls. I should feed you and send you on your way."

Her lower lip set itself into a disappointed pout. With a puckered brow that made her look all the younger, she studied him. "I am not a little girl. What do you want, my birth certificate? You wouldn't be the first, if that's what you're afraid of."

Perhaps that was just the point. Without a word, Nicholas stood and picked his way around her discarded clothing to the bathroom, shutting the door in her face when she padded after him on her bare feet.

Her bath had made a shambles of his ordinarily shipshape bathroom. She had used no less than four towels and abandoned them in heaps on the floor. In the scum-ringed tub, the soap was softening in a puddle near the washcloth-blocked drain. The contents of her elephantine handbag had been spilled and scattered over the commode and countertop. Several clean and dripping panties and bras hung over the shower curtain rod. And there was no telling to what uses she had put his now-bedraggled shaving brush. "Damn," he grumbled and tossed it into the waste can.

Ignoring her tapping on the door, he shaved, using his fingers to spread the lather. When he found his toothbrush under a wad of crumpled Kleenex, he eyed it suspiciously, then yanked open the door and confronted her with it. "Was this anyplace other than your mouth?"

Beth stepped back, her hands on her hips. "I have my own toothbrush, sir. I wouldn't think of putting some stranger's in my mouth!"

"Hmmmph," he muttered, wondering at what logic allowed her to be a prude about her toothbrush and loose with her body. He shook his head and retreated to finish his tasks. The folly of his decision to bring her home weighed down on him, and he was determined to reverse it before things got out of control.

It wrangled Nicholas that she had made the approach. He wondered how many others had rejected her before he succumbed. How many other nights had she pulled the same routine? If she could say he was not the first, could she put a reasonable number to his ranking? Or had she already lost count?

No, he decided, he could not replace Janey with this one. He should not be thinking of replacing Janey at all. There had to be an end to it. If he fell into the trap of assuming that anyone, saint or slut, would do, then where was the mystery in it?

He was not being true to the magic if anyone would do, and that would make everything that had gone before more horrible than it already was. Janey was the last. He had to make her the last.

But when he emerged from the bathroom with her repacked satchel and with her wet undergarments rolled up in a clean, dry towel tucked under his arm, Nicholas knew it was too late. It was the sight of Beth tiptoed on a chair, reaching for a jar of peanut butter on a shelf far beyond the tips of her fingers, the effort raising the hem of the sweatshirt to the bottom pink curves of her rump that made it so.

They had two months. Though Beth said she had no experience with kindness, had never expected it from anyone, didn't quite know how to respond to it, for a while she had seemed to revel in it. The brittle edges of her undernourished body softened. A natural bloom on her cheeks belied her need for the rouge that was her addiction. Her hair, always her glory, acquired a deep, lustrous fire of its own.

He gave her money to buy clothes, and she spent her days shopping or watching television and regaled him with daily blow-by-blow descriptions of
The Guiding Light
and
General Hospital
.

And Nicholas hadn't suspected a thing until he found the photographs of Mitch in a roll of film he was developing.

"I don't know why you're so upset. I told you it's only sex with him. It's all he's capable of," she had informed him casually.

Nicholas wanted to threaten her with what he knew was in his blood, what it didn't even take fury to incite in him, that slow, smoldering craving for the darkness, madness, and, maybe murder. He could have frightened her with it, he was sure. He had done it before. Janey had packed her bags when faced with the storm of it, small difference that it was not directed at her, nor could it ever be at any woman. It was not a woman's face or voice that ignited Nicholas's black rages.

But he couldn't do it. After Janey, he had worked so hard to get that part of him under control. He could not now use his latent madness as a weapon, no matter how Beth provoked him.

When she demanded money from him to end her pregnancy, he refused. He saw that tiny life within her as a chance. For both of them.