Forever Spring (9 page)

Her glance skimmed, shied away, then came back to slowly examine her own unadorned body. She swayed from the strength of the shudder that tore through her. Memory flashed, too clear, too sharp, too damning.. Vividly, as if rolled across a movie screen, a picture formed in her mind, a picture of two people, two
middle-aged
people, washed by sunlight, consumed by each other while in the throes of making love on the floor—no!—indulging their physical hungers!

The mental reenactment was demeaning, and it was demoralizing. What had seemed beautiful at the time took on shadings of ugliness. Karen swallowed against a rising tide of bitterness.

He had to stop her!

The silent inner command unlocked Paul’s frozen muscles. Not even certain exactly what he had to stop Karen from doing or thinking, he knew he had to put a stop to it at once. Three long strides were all that were required to propel him from the dining alcove and across to where she stood, still hovering near the wall phone. Paul extended his hand as he took the third step. Karen flinched and shrank back.

Her act caused the second toll of the death knell sounding inside his head.

“Don’t touch me, Paul, please.” Karen knew she couldn’t let him touch her. She couldn’t bear to have him touch her—she’d collapse, fall apart, and she didn’t have time to fall apart.

“Karen, what in hell is going on inside your head?” Paul’s voice held more plea than demand.

“I’m naked!” Karen shouted. “You’re naked!” “So what?” he shouted back, frustration heavy in his voice. “What do clothes have to do with anything?”

Karen’s head moved awkwardly as she glanced around, seeing nothing, feeling everything. “I’ve got to bathe and dress.” Her breath lodged in her chest. “I’ve got to pack.
I’ve got to go for my boys!”

Paul’s hand flashed out to grasp her wrist as she spun away from him. “Hold it.” His fingers tightened when she tried to yank free. “I said hold it, dammit!” His harsh tone stopped her frantic bid for release, but she refused to look at him. Paul’s chest heaved with a soundless sigh. “That’s better. I want you to tell me who you were speaking to on the phone and exactly what that person said to you to cause this hysterical reaction.”

He wanted?
He
wanted?
Hysterical?
Anger ripped through Karen with the devastating force of a flash fire. She could look at him now; she could glare at him.

“Who do you think you are?” Karen’s tone was scathing. God! She hurt, in her mind, in her heart and, worse, deep down in her soul—her so recently blackened soul. Her slicing tone cut into another soul, leaving it wounded and bleeding. “Just who in the hell do you think you are to question me?”

“Your lover.”

Anger receded. Senses ceased rioting. Karen’s brain switched to stun. It'was an irrefutable fact: Paul Van-zant, wanderer, vagrant, whatever, was her lover. Conflict ascended. She was torn between two separate needs. Her arms ached to curl around his trim waist; her palm itched to slap his aristocratic face. She did neither. In a tone that was free of expression, Karen related the phone conversation to him—at least what she could remember of it. Paul’s features settled into austere lines as she spoke.

“It’s a flagrant imposition on ties that no longer bind.” Breeding, culture and sheer male arrogance were expressed by Paul’s tone.

“He’s their father!” Karen protested, beginning to tremble. “Suppose it were you lying there in that hospital bed. Wouldn’t you want your son, your daughter?”

Paul conceded the point with a slight inclination of his head. “Yes, of course. And I understand your willingness to take his sons to him.” His lips flattened. “What I don’t understand is your intense reaction to the news of his attack.” He paused, as if hesitant to voice his suspicions. Then he squared his shoulders. “Are you still in love with him, Karen?”

“No.” Simple truth rang in her voice. She shook her head. “No, Paul,” she said more strongly, “I am not still in love with Charles. He very effectively killed the love I felt for him by confessing—or, more accurately, bragging—about his other women.”

Paul’s shoulders didn’t slump with relief, though the urge was great. “All right. Then why all this panic?” “My boys—” she began, her tone heating again.

“I understand that,” he interrupted, slashing his hand through the air. “What I don’t understand is your withdrawal.” She opened her mouth; his hand slashed the air once more. “And you are, already have, withdrawn from me. I want to know why.” Why? Karen gaped at him. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he feel the slightest twinge of remorse? Couldn’t he see exactly how that phone call had exposed their behavior? They were strangers—strangers! And yet, while her sons had gone innocently about their business and her sons’ father had fought the pain of a heart attack, two strangers to one another had gone at each other like alley cats at mating time!

Didn’t Paul see or understand that?

Karen’s breath trembled from her quivering body on a sigh. No, of course Paul couldn’t see or understand. He was a man, after all. And men viewed these things differently than women. Hadn’t she had proof enough of exactly how men viewed the male-female relationship?

Her response was too long in coming. Paul’s fingers tightened around her wrist.

“It was a mistake.”

His fingers flexed, and Karen flinched.

“I’m sorry.” The pressure was immediately eased. “What was a mistake?”

He knew. Karen was positive that though he had asked, Paul knew what her answer would be. She didn’t hesitate.

“Us,” she said, repressing a shudder. “The entire situation.” Her gaze crept to the sunlit spot on the alcove carpet, then skittered away again. “Our, our—” She couldn’t force the words past her lips.

“Our lovemaking, dammit!” Paul barked.

“It was all an enormous, dreadful mistake,” Karen went on, as if his harsh definition had never reached her ears.

Paul’s perfectly defined features grew taut with impatience. “Why?” he demanded harshly. “In what way was it a dreadful mistake?”

Though Karen trembled visibly, she met his drilling stare without flinching. “It all happened too soon. We don’t know one another.” Her trembling increased. “In simple terms, we were both motivated by lust, sex for sex’s sake alone.” Her trembling gave way to a violent shudder. “I—I feel as though I’ve not only betrayed myself but the trust of my children, as well,” she said in a stark, shaken tone.

“And now you’re drowning in guilt and shame and God knows what else.” Paul’s fingers loosened, releasing her imprisoned wrist. “You’re wrong, you know.” His voice held little hope of her hearing, or of her believing him if she did register his words.

Karen shook her head, confirming his lack of hope. She felt his sigh to the depths of her being—felt it, but could offer no solace to him, or to herself.

“I must go.” Clutching the clothing to her now-chilled body, she turned away.

“Wait.”

As had happened before, Karen found herself unable to disobey his commanding tone. She stopped but refused to look at him. “Paul, I must...”

“You must think about what you’re doing,” he finished for her. “You can’t simply toss on some clothing, pack a bag and run out the door.”

Since that was precisely what she’d been prepared to do, Karen glanced over her shoulder to frown at him. “Why can’t I?”

“Has the house been secured?” he asked, oddly detached.

“No, but—”

“Do you have any idea of how long you’ll be gone?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Have you notified the authorities at the boys’ school to expect you?”

“You know I haven’t!” Karen snapped, impatient with him and with herself. “But—”

“But what?” Paul’s tone, his eyes, his attitude, were cool. He had accepted her decision; he had little choice at that emotional moment, but he couldn’t accept hasty disorganization.

“I—” Karen’s hands lifted, then fell. “1 don’t know.”

“I do.”

Her mind a whirling mass of feelings and confusion, Karen stared at him with dulled eyes. “Okay,” she finally said. “If you know, tell me.”

“I intend to.” Paul swept a cool glance over her, then shifted his gaze to his own body. His lips twitched into a smile that was completely without humor. “The first thing we’re going to do is dress. After that we’re going to make fresh coffee, sit down and discuss what has to'be done.”

Karen launched into an argument. “But—” “Karen,” Paul snapped impatiently, “the only way to get started is to get started. Now please stop arguing and go get dressed.”

Karen went, quickly, if not exactly at a dead run. By the time she was once more clothed and protected by the concealing garments of respectability, she felt more like herself. She was ready and able to cope with the situation—but she wouldn’t allow herself to consider
which
situation.

As she rushed downstairs and into the kitchen, the realization hit her that Paul, on the other hand, was supremely ready to cope with any and all situations.

He was dressed in a knit pullover and faded jeans, jeans that should have looked odd on his elegant body but somehow looked perfect—perfectly fitting, perfectly appealing, perfectly sexy. And as if his attire wasn’t demoralizing enough, he had cleared away their uneaten breakfast, loaded the dishwasher, brewed a fresh pot of coffee and warmed the blueberry muffins she’d planned to serve at lunchtime. Karen’s renewed sense of confidence ebbed considerably.

“You didn’t shower,” she accused peevishly, trying to bolster her flagging ego.

“Of course I did.” Paul spared her a chiding look as he carried the glass coffeepot to the table. “Sit down, have some coffee, and we’ll plan the day.” It wasn’t an invitation, it was a direct order. “And bring the basket of muffins with you.” He didn’t bother glancing back to see if she’d comply; he obviously took it for granted that she would.

Karen bristled while she toyed with the idea of telling him precisely what he could do with the muffins, but on reflection decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She had more important things to do than start a yelling match with a man she was unlikely to ever see again after they left the house and parted company.

Unlikely to ever see again.
The echoing phrase induced a weakness that conflicted with the nervous energy urging her into constructive action. Wanting to run, possibly in several different directions at once, Karen snatched up the basket and followed him to the table.

Silence prevailed for long moments; tearing silence, brittle silence, an “I’ll scream if it doesn’t end” silence. Yet, when Paul quietly broke the silence, Karen started as though he’d shouted.

“You are taking the car?’’

“What?” she asked blankly.

Paul regarded her with infinite patience. “The car, Karen. I assume the compact I saw in the garage earlier is yours.”

“Oh! Yes. It is mine, and I am taking it.”

“Where in New Hampshire is this prep school?” The school. Her boys. Karen fought back a resurgence of shame and guilt.

“Karen?” His patience was not quite as infinite. “Ah... halfway,” she replied vaguely.

“Hmm.” Paul murmured into his cup before very casually placing it on the matching saucer. “Halfway from where to where?” His lowering tone and brow finally got through to her.

“I’m sorry!” She flushed. “The school is approximately midway between here and Boston.” Her shoulders tilted in a helpless shrug. “The location of the school was a symbolic concession under the terms of the divorce.” Her smile didn’t quite make it. “An indication that, symbolically at least, Charles and I are still sharing the children.”

“I wouldn’t touch that statement with a forked stick,” Paul commented, knowing full well his derisive tone said it all.

“I know.” Karen sighed her weariness. “Could we get on with the plans, please?” Arching her brows, she reached for a muffin she really didn’t want.

Paul continued. Succinctly, concisely, he outlined exactly what he considered had to be done; naturally, he was absolutely right on every point. While he spoke, Karen nodded, agreeing with every suggestion, and crumbled the muffin onto her plate.

“Fodder for the gulls?”

Karen trailed his gaze to the tiny pile of crumbs on her plate. “I’m not hungry,” she said defensively.

Paul’s lips curved into a small smile lightly tinged with tenderness. “A dead giveaway to your emotional condition,” he observed, referring to her earlier admission regarding her love of food.

“I suppose.” Karen tossed the agreement out carelessly, making it clear she was not about to allow him to reopen that particular topic. Paul got the message.

“You have friends in Boston?” he asked with a fine display of restraint. “People you can spend time with while you’re there?”

“Oh, yes.” She offered him her first genuine smile since answering the phone. “I also have my business there.”

“Business?” Paul sat up straight. “What sort of business?”

“I own a specialty shop... fine gifts, china, bric-a-brac and such. It’s called Garnishes.” She grimaced. “Of course, being way up here in Maine, I no longer manage it myself. Charles has been overseeing it for me.” At the thought and mention of her former husband’s name, Karen wet her suddenly dry lips. “I’ll need to make other arrangements.”

“A modern, civilized divorce,” he muttered, harking back to the confidences she’d made in a wine-induced haze. “And yet another statement I wouldn’t touch with—”

“All right!” Karen snapped, pushing her chair away from the table. “Shouldn’t we get on with what must be done?” As she was already crossing the kitchen floor to the sink, he had little choice.

The full October harvest moon blessed the landscape with shimmering silvery light and danced in a glittering path on the cresting sea.

Huddled inside her robe, cold even in the warmth of her bedroom, Karen stood at the window, staring into the brightness of the night and the darkness of her thoughts.

A few feet behind her, her small bedside clock rhythmically ticked away the minutes of the night. The alarm on the clock was set for six. All was in readiness. Due entirely to Paul’s penchant for detail, the house was secure, made safe in the event Karen’s stay in Boston should turn out to be an extended one. Except for the windows she stared out of and the two in Paul’s room across the hall, all the windows in the house were covered by sturdy, locked shutters. The solid wood storm doors were in place at the front and back of the house. Her nearest neighbor had been contacted and informed that Karen would be away; the taciturn neighbor had said he’d check on the property every day. A large suitcase and a garment bag had been packed and were now in the corner by the door. She had talked to her sons’ guidance counselor; he had assured her he would break the news about their father gently to the boys and have them ready to leave when she arrived at the school. Her car had been checked out and the gas tank filled at the service station in the small town. Karen planned to leave the house by 6:30.