The Master (10 page)

“No, live evergreens,” Nick answered. “They are brought into the home and decorated with lights and ornaments. Or popcorn and cranberries. We did that one year when my maternal grandfather was still alive. . . . I read somewhere that people used to go into the forest and sing to the trees at the winter solstice. It was supposed to remind the spirits to wake up in the spring, or something.”

“I know this tradition,” Zee said. “It was performed by goddess worshippers. I don't think people do it much anymore.”

“No. That was all a long time ago,” Nick agreed. He looked over at the fire. He'd missed that pleasure, too, he realized. He had a fireplace in his home but never bothered with it. Easier just to flip on the heater.

Really, his whole life was like that. He did what was easiest, most comfortable and convenient, not investing any effort or emotion in anything except his job. On the surface, he had a very nice life. Everything looked good. It was the modern American dream—good education, good job, good home.

And he realized that he hated it, and he had hated it from the beginning.

That's what I've been telling you,
said the voice in his head.

He was like a shadow of a man—

No, a ghost. At least, you're headed that way
.

Work was the only thing that supplied meaning, and he doffed his life every time he took off his scrubs and left them behind at the hospital. He had controlled his life until he had almost none left. Friends and family drifted farther away every year, and he made no effort to stop them because he was too busy laboring toward some forgotten professional goal.

What a time to discover that, while he had been diligently playing Sisyphus to his ambition, he had actually been rolling the stone up the wrong hill. And all the while, he'd filled his life with
no
s from childhood—no magic, no wildness, no passion. Then he'd added more. No play, no joy, no love.

No love
. Not from anyone. What madness! How had he thought to live? No wonder he was being haunted. It was probably his psyche's last desperate bid for freedom from its prison. All work and no play had done worse than make Nick a dull boy.

Then, isn't it time for a change? To make a leap of faith? To feed the impoverished spirit?

It was. He was lucky that his soul hadn't already left him and taken up residence somewhere else. It was just as the ghost had been suggesting, in his colorful metaphorical way: The real question wasn't what had Christmas done for him, but rather what had Nick done for Christmas—or for his soul. And the answer to that was easy: nothing. He'd done nothing to help keep the Christmas spirit alive. He'd completely ignored all spiritual or emotional matters. He hadn't fed his soul, and now it was famished.

But not anymore. Things were going to change. This was one genie that wasn't going back in the bottle. Whatever happened, he would never ask his spirit to return to the salt barrens of its previously empty life.

The strength of his abrupt resolution made him blink.

“Nick? Is something wrong?” Zee asked, leaning forward, her eyes and voice softened by concern.

“No, I'm fine,” he lied. He didn't like being untruthful, but he promised himself that it would only be a lie for a short time. He would be fine. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but it seemed as if he had already started making his life better. “Do you know, this is the first Christmas Eve I've enjoyed in years.”

Zee smiled a little. “Oddly enough, me, too. But then, it's my first Christmas, so I suppose that doesn't count.”

Nick chuckled. The sound was startling. He hadn't heard himself laugh in almost a decade. Of course, he had been living under a weight for that time that had squeezed the happiness out of him— who laughed when it was all they could do to breathe?

“I wish we had music,” he said suddenly. “It would be nice to dance.”

Zee's smile was bright enough to light The Strip in old Las Vegas.

“I would like that, too. I've never danced. With someone else, I mean. I've watched other people do it, though. It looks fun.”

“You've never danced?” Nick looked over at the children; they were curled up together and deeply asleep. They wouldn't witness anything silly that he and Zee did. Giving in to the alcohol, or to his reborn Christmas spirit, he said impulsively: “Let's try. Help me move this.”

Zee stood up eagerly. She drank down her eggnog, then both of them took an edge and moved the warped, groaning table to the side of the room, clearing a small space. Nick and Zee stood looking at one another without the table between them.

“How do we begin?” she asked.

“Well, to begin with, we need to be closer,” he said, taking a step toward her. Zee also stepped in, bringing them face to face. Nick hesitated a moment, wondering if he would start to feel ridiculous.

When embarrassment failed to arise in either of them, he went on. “Now, I put my hand on your waist. And you put yours on my shoulder. The easiest dance is the foxtrot, so we'll start with that.”

“Foxtrot?” The dimple made a fleeting reappearance. “We needn't get on all fours?”

“It looks better than it sounds,” Nick assured her. “Now, when I step forward with this foot, you step back with—yes. That's it! Now this foot . . . to the side . . . and, yes!”

“But we need music,” Zee said, dutifully following his lead.

“Right.” Going momentarily blank, all Nick could think of was the song he had learned to foxtrot to in a college dance class to which his girlfriend had dragged him. He started humming Eddie Rabbit's “I Love a Rainy Night.”

“Does it have words?” Zee asked, drawing a little closer. She tucked her head into the curve of his neck as if they had been dancing together for years. Nick hoped she wouldn't notice his pounding pulse; his systolic and diastolic pressure had both taken a jump. Good thing he had a lot of eggnog in him; the alcohol would help decrease his blood pressure, and maybe his heart wouldn't burst.

You're such a romantic,
the ghost in his head thought dryly. Nick ignored him.

“Words? Yes, a few.” Clearing his throat, and mindful of the children, he began to sing quietly.

Moving slowly around their tiny dance floor, Nick felt very young—and he wasn't certain if his mixture of youthful desire and longing was wonderful or dreadful. He couldn't even explain to himself why he was feeling this way. He was drawn to this stranger for some reason. The obvious explanation was that she was different, so beautiful and peaceful and otherworldly. But it was more than that. And whatever it was, it was making him feel goofy, like his head was full of helium and he would simply float away to someplace wonderful.

Should he stop? He really didn't want to embarrass himself. Or her. Or both of them. Were her legs bare under that denim skirt? Surely not! It was winter, after all. She probably had on long johns.

“I like this song,” Zee said. “I like all your songs. Sing another,” she begged, cuddling even closer.

Nick made up some spontaneous prayers about controlling himself and his contracting muscles, which were about to announce in the most unsubtle of ways that he really, really liked her. He hoped that thinking of songs would be a bit like thinking of baseball—or did he mean England? Baseball was to make things last longer, wasn't it?
Stop thinking about it!
he told himself.

Desperate for distraction, he started singing a favorite song from college, “Put the Yule Log Down, Uncle John” by P.D.Q. Bach. His effort at singing all four parts of the madrigal simultaneously was not entirely successful, but it managed to do what baseball had not.

Zee giggled and lifted her head.

“I don't know what it is about you, Nick,” she said, her eyes shining, “but I like you very much. I would think you are my Christmas present—but the elf didn't bring you to me. Unless
he
caused the storm . . . ? ”

Nick swallowed and stopped dancing. Looking into her eyes made his knees feel shaky.

“I'm almost sure that it's the other way around,” he answered. “And sometimes fate works in mysterious ways. Maybe Santa did cause the storm.”

“I like mystery. And I like . . .” Zee stood on her toes, bringing her mouth closer to his. Her eyes asked if this was what he wanted.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers, letting their lips meet, waiting, waiting . . .

As the kiss began, Nick knew that he had his arms about her, and hers were twined around him. Their bodies were close, pressed even closer. But he couldn't feel any of it. His world had narrowed to his lips and hers, and to the wild, blinding sweetness that passed between them.

It was the best kiss ever. He felt like it was his first, and he knew he was a goner.

Told you so,
the voice said, intruding suddenly.

“Oh, no,” Nick whispered.
Please leave!

“No?” Zee pulled back slightly, her eyes fluttering open.

“I mean, yes,” he corrected hastily, and decided to try a second kiss. After all, an experiment wasn't valid unless it was repeatable.

It worked like a charm. All symptoms of love returned: sweaty hands, pounding heart, ragged breath, a drastic drop in mental acuity, a passionate wish for the moment to never end.

This wasn't bad, was it? People prayed for this— spent their lives looking for it. There was no reason that he should be worried about anything.

Well,
answered the annoying voice in his head; it sounded apologetic.
There is just one thing to worry about
—
maybe. The girl comes from a strange family, not your usual WASP-type home at all. But one thing at a time, right?

Oh, and you might want to ask a few more details about that bad man at the mall later. When you have a chance.

You're worse than a cold shower. I'm begging you—go away,
Nick thought.

Right! Sorry. Catch you later.

Nick's brain snapped back to the present as Zee reached for her sweater. She undid it without a fuss. Nick was certain that he should object, that this was too fast, but he was too fascinated by the sight of her delicate hands sliding the bone-colored buttons through the buttonholes.

“The children,” he whispered, while he still could.

“They will not waken,” Zee assured him. She removed the plain white cotton bra she wore under the sweater.

Nick nodded, his mouth dry. Her skin from the neck down was exquisite, flawless, golden as sunrise. Her shoulders were soft and sloping. Her breasts were small but perfect, and her waist was tapered. The only flaw he saw was a pair of small curved marks on each of her sides—possibly scars. Or maybe they were tattoos. Right under her arms, they were down about eight inches.

“Nick,” she said softly, reaching for him.

As if awakening from a trance, Nick nodded and pulled off his own sweater. He took more care with his pants, kicking off his shoes and cautiously unzipping. Pushing down his slacks, he found he already had a painfully hard erection, which had hardly been contained by the fabric. How had he not noticed?

Zee stepped closer.

Nick reached out and slowly touched her cheek. Zee shivered. The small trembles traveled up his own arms. The sensation was exquisite; he'd never felt anything like it.

Nick explored her slowly and gently, letting his hands travel at will. Zee's throat was long and sleek, and it led to the lovely expanse of skin above her exquisite breasts, that path only broken by the delicate necklace and charm that she wore. His hands were neither rough nor tanned, but they looked harsh against her flesh, so fine was its texture. The sight of his dark fingers on her golden skin fascinated him.

So did her sigh—especially when her eyes fluttered closed and her head fell back, pulling the line of her throat taut and bringing her collarbones into sharp relief. The faint smell of hot chocolate and musk was in the air.

He cupped her breasts gently and she shivered again, and once more small shockwaves of pleasure traveled up his arms, tightening Nick's chest. A part of him looked on in disbelief, unable to comprehend the fact that Zee was real and standing there, naked, in his arms. The experience was dreamlike and yet more real and urgent than any he had ever faced. He had desires beyond physical longing— but he could not say for what.

His eyes traveled downward. Her pubic hair was a perfect golden triangle, a shy arrow that both pointed out and sheltered the delicate mystery he wanted to explore more than he wanted his next breath.

Nick knelt. He nuzzled her for a moment, feeling the muscles of her belly flex beneath his cheek. Guided by an instinct that said to be slow and gentle, he put his hand out and coaxed her to open. He petted and stroked, all the while feeling her trembling as if it were his own. In no hurry now—this was inevitable, their lovemaking was going to happen—he eased a finger inside her. The heat and slickness made him moan aloud. His arousal was killing him, making him shake and forget to breathe so that he was growing dizzy, yet he did not want to hasten what was the most beautiful moment he had ever known.

Nick stood slowly. He reached for the last blanket on the table and laid it upon the floor. When he looked up, Zee's eyes had opened. It had to be a trick of the fire, but her irises blazed as radiant as the moon.

He reached out a hand and helped her to kneel. He followed her onto the rude bed. He felt a moment of regret that their first joining should be in a place so rough and bare, but then Zee smiled at him and he forgot everything but the need to be with her; he settled atop her. He could feel her softness, her wetness, and he was almost driven insane.

But as he began to ease inside Zee, her instinctive stiffening was enough to penetrate the fog of desire and alcohol that surrounded him. Nick was certain that she had never made love before. The knowledge humbled him. He hesitated.