Some Kind of Magic (12 page)

“We were doing things.”

She had been staring at the vicinity of his chest. Now she looked up. She swallowed. “Oh?” It was a soft whisper. An inquisitive whisper. “What kind of things?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I was hoping that maybe instead of telling me, you could ... you know ...” She made an airy gesture with one hand. Then she smiled up at him with some of her earlier bravado. “Show me?”

“Let's see.” He looked toward the wooden ceiling. “If I remember right, I was sitting down. And you—” As he backed up he took her by the waist, pulling her with him. He sat down on the bench. “You were facing me.” He pulled her closer.

“Like this?”

She straddled his thighs with her legs and sat down.

He cupped the sweet curves of her bottom, left exposed by her tiny panties, and pulled her closer. “Of course we were both naked.”

“Oh. Yes.”

She put her hands to his shoulders. Her towel slid away. Her breasts were mounded above the softness of her low-cut bra, her nipples peeking out above the fabric like pink velvet.

“Wait. In my dream, you weren’t wearing this silly-ass hat.”

He pulled it from her head and dropped it beside them on the bench. Then he bent his head and placed his mouth first over one soft nipple, then the other. Her hands left his shoulders to dig her fingers into his hair. She began to move against him ever so slightly. He lifted his head and reached behind her to unhook her bra, sliding it down her arms and dropping it somewhere beside them, all the while watching her as she looked back at him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

“In my dream, I was inside you.”

He slipped his fingers beneath the elastic of her panties, quickly finding her hot wetness. He stroked her, watching her head go back, watching her eyes close. “We were sweating, just the way we are now.” He watched a trail of sweat trickle between her breasts. He bent his head and licked it, savoring the saltiness of her soft skin. He continued to stroke her. “And you were tight. And you were so hot. We were both on fire, both burning up.”

She began making little keening sounds, sounds that told him she was winding up.

“Please, Dylan. Do something. Do it now.” She reached between them, quickly finding him through the slit in his boxer shorts, making a soft sound of appreciation as she freed him.

He had a sudden intrusive thought. “Claire, are you drunk?”

His question brought about a groggy reply, pulling her back from whatever kind of heaven people went to under such circumstances. “Drunk?”

“As in too drunk to make this kind of decision?”

“No. Absolutely not.” She sounded close to panic. “Don't you dare change your mind on me. Don't you dare start trying to think for me. Or second-guess me.”

“That's all I wanted to know.”

With that, he lifted her onto him, sliding deep into her sweetness, at first just savoring the feel of her around him, at first just savoring her, savoring Claire. “Oh, Claire. You feel so good. So damn good.”

He felt her hand on his cheek, lifting his face to hers. “Now will you kiss me?”

And he realized he'd never kissed her. Not a real kiss.

He moved his mouth over hers, sucking, kissing one part of her mouth at a time. He slipped his tongue deep inside, feeling the rough edge of her teeth, tasting the sweetness of the wine. She moaned. And then she pulled away to grasp the back of the wooden bench. She moved over him, using her knees as a lever to deepen the penetration.

She took him on a wild ride. It was like being on a roller coaster, and the car you were in was moving steadily up, higher and higher, and you knew it was just beginning, you knew things were going to change. And then suddenly there was the darkness, pitch black. And you went hurtling down so fast that there was no time to think about what was happening, all you could do was hang on.

He finally came back down, awareness slowly creeping in.

Claire was draped over him, her body limp and spent, her wet hair and sticking to his neck. They were both drenched in perspiration.

“Claire.” Was she asleep?

“Claire.”

She mumbled something against his neck, and rolled her head around a little. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I can’t move,” she muttered, one arm dropping beside her.

She was drunk. Drunk on her ass.

“Claire. Come on.”

He managed to wake her enough to lift her away from him and sit her on the bench where she immediately fell back to sleep, kind of collapsing head first onto the bench, her feet still on the floor.

He stood in front of her, grabbed her by both arms, and pulled her to her feet. Once she was upright, he draped both of her arms over his shoulders, and proceeded to walk backward toward the door.

At first, her feet just stayed where they were.

“Claire. Come on. Walk. One foot in front of the other. That’s the ticket. There you go. Now we’re going out the door. You’re going to have to step up. Then step down. Thatta girl. There you go.”

Cold air hit his back. He pulled air into his lungs, his sluggish brain immediately feeling clearer. Son of a bitch. She was going to be pissed at him. Come morning, she was going to hate him.

He wanted to drop down in the snow, but while Claire was still upright and semiconscious, he thought he’d better just get her to the house, get her to bed.

The frigid air seemed to have a slightly reviving effect on her. Suddenly she stood up a little straighter. She looked toward the house, kind of squinting her eyes. “That my house?”

“Yeah, that’s your house.”

“Looks funny. Kind of swirly.”

She was going to hate him. “’That’s because you’re kind of swirly.”

“I am?" She laughed.

Suddenly she put a hand to her chest. “Am I naked?"' she asked, in shocked surprise, her spine straightening once more.

“Almost.”

How in the hell had she gone from just feeling a little giddy, to drunk on her ass? One minute she'd just seemed like somebody who’d had a couple of drinks.

“Why’m I naked? More to the point, why’m I naked outside?”

“I’m trying to take care of that outside problem right now." This was a nightmare. Or some frat-house dream.

She wagged a finger at him. “I know what you want. You want to”—she leaned close, then whispered very loudly—“have sex with me.”

She took a staggering step. He caught her. “Come on, Claire.”

Somehow he managed to get her into the house, kicking the door closed behind them. He half carried, half dragged her to the bedroom, dropping her across the bed. Her eyes were closed.

He shifted her around so her head was on the pillow, and her feet were where they should be. Then he pulled the quilts out from under her legs and covered her up.

“The bed’s spinning,” she said, throwing one leg out from under the covers and planting a foot on the floor. “If I put my foot on the floor, maybe it will stop spinning.” She put an arm across her face. “Turn off the light. The light is hurting my eyes.”

He turned off the light, then stood near the doorway, wondering what to do. He had his answer fairly quickly.

“Sick. Gonna be sick.”

She threw back the covers, both of her feet hitting the floor at the same time. Her radar was excellent. She charged directly for the bathroom, never hesitating, never once staggering or taking the wrong turn. He followed the all-too-familiar sounds. He flicked on the light to see Claire, kneeling in front of the toilet, both hands on the rim, wet hair hanging on both sides of her face, naked except for a pair of thong underwear.

And he thought, this must be love. There she was. He’d probably never see her in a more humiliating situation, and yet he wasn’t repulsed. And he wasn't disgusted. Instead he felt, well, he didn't think that honored was exactly the word for it, but it was as close as he could get. And he felt this kind of sweet affection that took him totally by surprise.

He grabbed her housecoat off the hook on the bathroom door and put it over her shoulders. Then he threaded her arms through it, one at a time. He smoothed the damp hair back from her forehead. “Done?”

She nodded.

“Want a drink of water?”

She shook her head.

“Want to get back in bed?”

She nodded.

He helped her up, then led her to the bed where he tucked her in all over again, noting the paleness of her skin, the purple smudges under her closed eyes, the way her lashes made a shadow on her cheeks.

I think I’m in love.

She’s gonna kill me in the morning.

Claire moaned and rolled over in bed, hugging the pillow tighter. That didn’t help. She moaned and rolled the other direction, wrapping the pillow around her swollen head.

Oh God. She felt horrible.
Horrible
.

Sunlight knifed its way through the window, shouting at her, screaming at her to get up. With her head feeling the size of a watermelon, she swung her legs to the side of the bed and slowly sat up. Bad idea. She lowered herself back down, missing the pillow completely to lie staring up at the ceiling. Her skin felt too tight for her body, her brain too big for her skull.

Thanks, Granny.

That had been some potent batch of elderberry wine.

What she needed was a shower. A shower helped everything.

She sat up again, pulling impatiently at the bathrobe that was twisted around her middle. Carefully, she got to her feet, and then moved very, very slowly in the direction of the bathroom, noting through a blur of agony that the house was quiet, that there was no sign of Dylan. Good. She didn’t want him seeing her in this shape, didn’t want him laughing in her face, telling her she should know better than to let herself get so stinking drunk that she ended up with the mother of all hangovers.

Poison. That’s what alcohol was. Poison. She was just damn lucky she hadn’t died.

The shower wasn’t really a shower. It was actually a claw-foot tub that had been converted into a shower by hanging two white curtains on a curved rod. Claire separated the curtains and sat on the cold edge of the tub while adjusting the water temperature. She turned on the showerhead, stepped into the tub, and closed the curtain.

And she stood there.

And stood there, her eyes closed, her head tilted back, water soaking her hair, creeping in between each strand to sizzle when it hit her scalp.

Wonder how many brain cells I lost last night
. Hundreds. No, that wasn’t nearly enough. Millions. A million, billion, trillion.

The shower wasn’t helping. She still felt like she’d been hit by a train. She couldn’t remain upright another second.

She turned around, grabbed the edges of the tub, and sat down, resting her shoulders against the curved back of the tub. The porcelain was cold against her skin. Under normal conditions, such a chill would have shot her back to her feet. Today it felt good.

She lay there with her eyes closed, the water from the shower hitting her full in the face, full in a forehead that had to have steam rising from it.

That was fun for a little while.

Using her big toe, she turned off the showerhead, slid the metal drain lever to the right, leaned back, and waited for the tub to fill. While she waited, she found her green mesh scrubby thing, squirted some peach-smelling soap on it, then began to drag in across her body. She paused over her breast.

Was that a whisker burn?

No, couldn't be.

But she’d had a whisker burn before, and it certainly looked like a whisker bum. She gradually became aware of other sensations in other areas of her body, sensations that the agony of her hangover had completely overshadowed. Both of her nipples were a little sore. And between her thighs there was a tenderness, a sweet reminder of something she couldn't remember.

Oh Lord.

She thought back to last night, remembering Dylan in the sauna with her, drinking the elderberry wine. She even vaguely recalled running outside and rolling around in the snow. But after that…

Total blackout. Wasn't that what it was called? When alcoholics lost hours of their lives? But she wasn't an alcoholic.

Dylan. Where was Dylan? If they'd made love, he could have at least hung around. She'd awakened by herself. Had he slept in her bed at all?

The tub was getting too full. She brought up her toe and shut off the water.

Why now? If they'd done it, why now?

The voodoo doll.

She put a hand to her mouth. Oh, my God. It couldn't be… And yet, the first time she'd stuck a pin in the doll's head Dylan had wrecked her Jeep and gotten a concussion.

She sat there until the water turned cold. Then, still moving with extreme care, she let the water out of the tub, dried off, put on her robe, and went to the kitchen to find some aspirin.

She’d just swallowed two tablets when Dylan showed up.

“How are you feeling?”

She choked down a third chalky pill and turned around.

He stood with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, one shoulder against the doorframe.

Her hand shook as she put down the glass on the counter. “Bad.”

This was so awkward. He stayed where he was, keeping what seemed to her a wary distance. She pushed a lock of wet hair back from her face. If last night had been anything special to him, he wouldn't be hanging back like that. He'd come up to her, pull her into his arms, kiss her. Once again she thought about the fact that he hadn't slept with her.

Had it been so awful? Anton's words came back to haunt her. You were never anything special. Just another lay.

“Weren't you going to call your agent today?”

She'd completely forgotten about the contract with Cardcity. She put a hand to her head.

“When you're ready to go, I'll drive you to town. You don't look like you're in any shape to go by yourself.”

“Thanks.”

She had to get away, had to be by herself to sort things out. “I've got to go lie down for a while.” She floated past him, not looking to the left or right, just intent on getting to her bedroom.

~0~

Did she even remember what had happened last night? Dylan wondered as he watched her disappear into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She'd really been out of it. Or did she want to forget what had happened? It was entirely possible she was ashamed and embarrassed and wanted to forget the entire episode.

Easy for her.

It was all he could think about. He’d spent the rest of last night checking on her every few minutes, making sure she was okay. When morning came and she’d begun to stir, he’d disappeared, figuring it was a good time to chop wood. Lots of wood. But when he’d come back in to see her standing there in the kitchen, looking pale and small and confused, he’d wanted to go to her. He’d wanted to hold her, kiss her. Maybe even make love again, this time with her completely sober. He’d waited for some tiny sign, some infinitesimal hint that she remembered and that she didn’t regret what had happened. But it had never come. And now he was going to have to spend the next several hours in close quarters with her. It was going to be tough.

Dylan insisted upon taking his car to Fallon, and Claire felt too horrible to argue. In fact, she felt too horrible to do much analyzing or putting of thoughts into words in order to fill the silence that followed them from her house to town.

The sun was too bright, reflecting off the snow, drilling a hole in her retina that went all the way to her brain. And his car was noisy, the way older cars were, and it smelled as if the previous owner had had a fondness for cigars.

“Here. Try these.” Dylan took off his sunglasses and tried to hand them to her.

She shook her head. “No thanks.”

“Go on. You need them more than I do.”

She couldn’t argue with that. She took them and slipped them on. Ahhh.

“Better?”

“Much.”

Dylan turned into the 7-Eleven parking lot, pulling to a stop a few yards from the pay phone.

~0~

Claire stepped into the booth and closed the door, all the while aware of Dylan watching from his car. She dug out her phone card along with her agent’s number and put the call through. It rang twice before she pushed the metal receiver down.

She couldn’t go through with this. Who was she trying to kid? She was calling from a phone booth, for chrissake. She was a nobody from nowhere. She'd never finished college. She was a failure at everything. Sure, maybe they liked the work she’d sent them, but the pictures were a fluke. Luck. She couldn’t do it again. She couldn't keep up the quality. And even if she could, maybe the person who made the decision to buy was some goofball. Somebody who didn't know the market. Somebody who didn’t know the difference between good and bad.

How awful to have her art shipped to every card store in the country, only to have people hate it, or worse yet, be indifferent. She was setting herself up for public ridicule.

She tried to visualize the sketches she'd sent them. In her mind she pictured a bunch of crude stick figures. There was the little stick froggie; the little stick turtle with his round head and dot eyes; the stick grasshopper.

Something was wrong. A terrible mistake had been made. A mistake she could fix. All she had to do was say one word: No.

The accordion door opened. Dylan squeezed himself inside, shutting the door behind him so they were smashed into the cramped glass booth. “Something wrong?” he asked.

She hung up the receiver and continued to stare at it. “I can’t do it.”

“Here.” He reached for the phone. “I'll dial for you.”

She put a hand to his arm. “No, I mean”— this time she looked up at him through the dark sunglasses, giving added emphasis to her words—“I can’t do it.”

He stared at her, comprehension seeping into his features.

“I can't go through with it.”

“Claire, don’t do this to yourself.”

She shook her head. “There’s been some horrible mistake.”

He picked up the receiver and tucked it under his chin. He dialed the phone card number. “What’s the PIN?”

She told him.

Then he dialed her agent’s number and waited.

“Claire Maxfield here to speak to John”—he lifted the paper—“Carpenter.”

He handed the phone to Claire. “Tell him yes. That's all you have to do. Just tell him yes.”

“John?” she said when she heard her agent's voice.

“Don't pass this up,” Dylan whispered. “Don't do that to yourself.”

Claire gripped the receiver with both hands, keeping her eyes on Dylan. “I've decided to accept Cardcity's offer.”

John said something about not accepting so easily, something about letting them stew a little to see if they would come up with something better.

“No.” She put trembling fingers to her sizzling forehead. “I want to accept their first offer.”

“Are you sure?” From the tone of his voice, she could see he didn't think it was a good idea.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. You should see a contract in about a month. Oh, and Claire? Why don't you celebrate by getting yourself a telephone?”

She was thinking something along the lines of don't count your chickens before they hatch when she told him good-bye and hung up.

Dylan didn't move. She couldn't open the door, couldn't get out, until he moved.

“It'll be okay,” he told her.

“For years I've been told that my work stinks. How can the same stuff be bad one minute and good the next?”

“Maybe things aren't supposed to be easy. When things are too easy, we lose touch with what we feel passionate about. But when you have to fight for it, stand up for it, well, that would have to be a damn good feeling when you finally win. Where's the satisfaction in an easy win? Where’s the
life
in an easy win?”

She understood what he was saying, yet his words didn't make her feel any more confident. Deep down she knew it wasn't just her art that was bothering her. For the moment, it had taken a backseat to what had happened between her and Dylan.

She couldn't keep quiet any longer. “We made love last night, didn't we?” She hadn’t intended for the tone of her words to hold such accusation.

He cupped her face in both of his hands, a tender gesture. “I'm sorry, Claire.”

She pulled away from his touch. “I'm so
ashamed
.” Not that it had happened. Oh no. But the way it had happened. “I feel so
cheap
. ”

“It was my fault.” His voice was suddenly distant. Almost as if he were trying to sort something out in his head.

Someone honked.

Claire looked up through blurry eyes and dark lenses to see Libby frantically waving from her car, all smiles.

Claire attempted a feeble smile in return and a limp wave.

Oh, no. Libby was getting out of her car. She was coming over. She would be full of questions, full of curiosity.

“It's Libby,” Claire said. “A friend of mine.”

Dylan opened the door and inched his way out, with Claire following. In the glaring sunlight, Libby all smiles, Claire mechanically made introductions.

“Tell Libby your big news,” Dylan said.

Al the spirit had gone out of her, and he felt as if it was his fault. He wanted to see Claire's face light up the way it had last night when she'd gotten the letter.

He didn't know much about women. Nothing, really. There had been Olivia, of course, but that was different, and it had been years and years ago, another lifetime. There had been women in his life, but no relationships, nothing that had cracked the surface, nothing that had meant anything. He'd spent a lot of time simply existing, years spent in isolation.