by Ruth Wind
A puzzled look crossed his face. “My pleasure.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I think I’ll go have a drink with my brother. Maybe we can dance again later.”
“Sure.”
The reception lasted a long, long time. It was well past dark, and Jake was amazed to find himself still upright. He didn’t dare drink much for fear of keeling over where he stood, but in his current state, it didn’t take much Scotch to give him a little buzz. He danced when asked and drank a toast to his brother, but mostly, he stationed himself at the bar and drank water, watching the room with the same sense of distance with which he’d viewed everything for longer than he cared to admit.
Nothing ever seemed real. He had a sense of being on the outside, as if he were watching a movie—even when he had sex with a beautiful woman, or ate a good meal, or pretended he was having a conversation with one of his brothers. He could manage to participate for about five minutes in any one thing, then some switch in his brain kicked in and he was no longer a part of the moment, but instead observing it from some faraway place, with the sound turned low.
He was fairly sure he was losing his mind. But even that roused no emotion in him. He didn’t much care.
There were only a couple places he felt his old self—at the VA home and when he cooked. Six months ago, he’d purchased a long-established restaurant at the edge of town. He’d done it on a whim, wanting something to do. He’d always enjoyed food and cooking, and the business was handled by a manager. In the short time he’d been running the place, the profits had slowly increased. But it was in the big, old cluttered kitchen that Jake found peace. If only he could retreat there now and spend the rest of the night making up dishes, Jake thought he could weather this bout of—whatever the hell it was. But much as he half-wished to retreat to the restaurant now and spend the rest of the night making up new dishes, sometimes a man had to turn up for certain occasions, and his brother’s wedding was one of those times.
So he watched the movie playing on the dance floor, complete with soundtrack from the band. Colors seemed a little overbright, as if it were an old Technicolor film. The blondes were brassy, the lipsticks too red or too pink, the dresses just a little too flagrantly pastel.
A hand fell on his arm, and Jake smelled Ramona’s perfume. “How you doing, soldier?” she said, and half hopped up to the seat of a stool beside him.
He couldn’t rouse a lie. “I’m dead on my feet, Doc.”
“I thought so.” Her hand rested lightly on his sleeve, and it didn’t annoy him as he might have expected. It was soothing. “Why don’t you let me drive you home?”
A picture of his sterile condo flashed through his mind, and Jake found himself gritting his teeth. “No, thanks. I might run over to the Wild Moose after and cook up something interesting.”
“I’d forgotten you bought the place. How’s it doing?”
“Great. All it needed was a little modernization—some low-fat salad dressings and upscale presentation. I’ve tried to keep the old feeling, too, somehow make it okay for the town, as well as bring in that fit crowd from the mountains.”
“I’ll have to stop by.”
“Do. I’ll hustle up something special just for you.” He found his face stretching into that weird, sincere smile. “No artichoke hearts, but I’ll have to see about getting them on the menu.”
Ramona laughed. “Don’t bother. There’s so much fat in the dressing, no one in the ski crowd will touch it, and I suspect most of the townspeople would avoid artichokes on general principles.”
“I’ll bet I can come up with a sauce that tastes exactly like that one, and cut ninety percent of the fat.”
“You make it and I’ll eat it.”
Her smile was warm as morning, and he liked the gentleness in her eyes. Against the Technicolor surrealism in the rest of the room, she was as real and as tangible as the earth itself. There were no artificial harsh highlights in her hair, no lipstick blurring her pink mouth. Her bare toes peeked out from beneath the awful dress and her feet seemed the most real thing of all. “Where are your slippers, Cinderella?”
“I hate high heels.” She looked at her toes. “And anyway, Tamara is Cinderella, remember? I’m the mouse turned into a coachman for the day.”
“Not a mouse,” he said, and inclined his head. “A deer, maybe. You have eyes like a doe, all big and brown and shiny.”
“A deer?” She grinned. “You mean those tall, leggy creatures that leap gracefully through the forest?”
He chuckled and cast an appreciative eye over her lush curves. “Well, doe eyes anyway.” He lifted an eyebrow. “The rest is more like—” he narrowed his eyes teasingly “—a hen.”
“Oh, thank you very much!” she exclaimed without rancor. “Now I know exactly how awful this dress is.”
Jake had thought she looked like a hen at first and hadn’t thought it kindly. But now, as she sat next to him, all real and earthy and shapely, he thought of how she’d felt against him when they danced: giving and soft. He raised his eyes. “I was thinking more like a succulent, freshly roasted hen—juicy and rich and delicious.”
Ramona blushed. The color rose instantly, burning in her cheeks and faintly along the rise of her breasts. “Oh,” she murmured.
He leaned forward. “Are you really blushing?” he teased, and touched her cheek. “I haven’t seen a woman blush like that in a long, long time.”
She wouldn’t look at him. “You embarrassed me.”
It pained him a little. “I didn’t mean to, Ramona. I was trying to give you a compliment.”
A reluctant smile curved that pretty mouth. “Well, then, I suppose I should thank you.”
“I think so.” Distantly, he realized he shouldn’t be flirting with her, not this good, kind, honorable woman, who was unsophisticated enough to blush at a bawdy compliment, but he was too damned tired to think it through. He ought to take his randiness to one of the brittle women he’d danced with and be done with it. But he didn’t want one of them. Not tonight. It was more pleasant to simply sit here with Ramona.
The band shifted to a new song, and Jake felt the notes pluck something inside him. It was a good rendition of Van Morrison’s “Listen to the Lion.” Impulsively, he took her hand. “Dance with me again, will you?”
She lifted her dress to show him her bare feet. “Not this time. Without my shoes, I’ll be way too short.”
Jake stood and took her hand. “No, you won’t. You can stand on my feet, like a little kid.”
“No way!” She laughed and tried to pull her hand out of his grip.
He didn’t let go. “I won’t take no for an answer. You might as well just give in.”
She gave him a wry, disbelieving look. “Or what?”
“Or—” he let her hand go and reached for her waist “—I’ll carry you out there.”
“Now that would be typical macho behavior.”
Jake chuckled. “We’ve already established I don’t have to be politically correct.” With a quick movement, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
“Jake!” she cried. “Put me down before I have to scream.”
She wasn’t exactly light, and he did set her on her feet. “Let’s go, then.”
“Fine. But I’m not going to stand on your feet like a four-year-old.”
“That’s up to you.” In spite of the little scene at the bar, no one paid them much attention. Jake slid into a spot on the darkened floor and pulled Ramona close, bending over a little to do so. “You are short, Miss Hen.”
She slapped his arm. “I tried to warn you.”
“That’s all right. This will work.”
It worked just fine. Her breasts pushed softly into his ribs, plush and comfortable. He slid his hands down her back and put his hands on the upper edge of her hips, liking the flare of solid flesh under his palms.
But she was a little stiff again, and he rubbed the hollow of her back for a moment. “Just relax, Ramona. Remember?”
“There,” he said. “Isn’t that better?”
Her answer was low and faintly muffled. “I guess.”
Jake took a deep breath and let himself fall into the simple movements of a slow dance. Holding Ramona was as comforting as hugging a favorite stuffed animal. All thought, all worry, all despair simply flowed out of him, leaving his mind to drift on the quiet eddies of a romantic song.
He didn’t know how long they danced like that. By now, the band was playing all slow songs for the romances developing at the reception. The lights were low, and the crowd had thinned enough so that there were no real distractions.
And he didn’t know exactly when the feeling of Ramona’s body changed against him, either. When she stopped being simply a comforting teddy bear and became a warm, lush woman. The awareness drifted in slowly. The change came in snippets: the smell of her citrusy shampoo, the slight sway of her breasts against him, the giving warmth of her body against his faint arousal, the swishing sound of her satin skirts. The sensation of slippery satin over warm flesh proved an alluring combination, and he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still. Up and down her back they moved, over the curves and into the channel of her spine, down again to the dip of flesh over her bottom, then along the swell of her hips and over her dress up to the bare skin of her shoulders. The sudden encounter with pliant flesh after the slick satin gave him a pleasant jolt each time.
What would it be like to make love to so small and lush a woman as this? How would they fit together, and how would she sound when she made love? The questions flitted through his mind, undemanding and unalarming. He didn’t open his eyes or resist, only allowed a vision of their lovemaking to drift through his mind. It was surprisingly erotic to imagine her nude and aroused beneath him, surprisingly inviting.
And because he was so tired, because he had no will to think or consider, he acted on impulse, guiding her into a darkened hallway that led to the back rooms of the hall.
Ramona didn’t notice until the darkness around them was absolute. She lifted her head and, with a half-dazed look around, said, “Jake, what—”
Her uptilted face was white in the darkness, her eyes dark and limpid and deep. He curled his hand around her neck and bent his head close.
And kissed her.
She made a faint, surprised sound as their lips touched, and one of her hands flew up to his chest. But she did not push him away, only tilted her head to fit her mouth to his more perfectly: Her lips were as warm as the rest of her, and he liked the plumpness that molded to the shape of his own mouth. He liked the taste of lemon and caramel that lingered there, and the sudden catch of her breath.
Deepening the kiss, he pulled her tightly to him, pressing all of her against all of him. Her body and his seemed to meld, and Jake felt himself respond, felt her notice that response, and he told himself he should stop, that he was taking greater liberties than he ought.
But just then, she opened her lips to his tongue and invited him in, and Jake gave a groan of pleasure. Women liked kissing. He had perfected his technique for that reason, learning how to coax a soft response or a furious one, learning to kindle the flames that he needed for his own satisfaction.
Now as he kissed Ramona, he remembered those techniques, the slide of a tongue, a grazing nibble, the suckling of a lip.
Somehow, he did not use them. He meant to, but he kept getting lost in the feeling of her tongue against his, parrying and darting and tangling. He lost himself in the tenderness of her inner lip and the feeling of her body against his. She smelled right and felt right, and in the darkness, with music playing softly in the distance, it was a uniquely sensual experience. It had never seemed so easy to simply drift along on a kiss, to take such pleasure in the soft heat of her breath coming in a little rush.
He wasn’t ready for the flare of heat that exploded inside him, sending a message of urgent need into his belly. Reacting to this overwhelming desire, he shifted to press her close against the wall, thrusting his hips against her in an instinctive and earthy movement that was totally unlike him. She did not protest or make a sound of disgust, only arched against him with the same instinctive need as his own. The kiss grew wilder, more demanding. He plunged and retreated and finally grasped her face in his hands so he could kiss her as deeply as he wished.
He yearned to slide his hands over her breasts, to lift that ugly skirt and touch her thighs, but he didn’t. He only kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, as if they were really at a high school dance, where they had to be careful and they both had parents waiting up to ask questions when they got home.
It was this feeling that made him finally reel himself under control and slow their kiss, letting its fierceness ebb into a low, soft burn.
At last, he lifted his head.... And only then, seeing the stunned expression on her face, the look of vulnerability in her eyes, did he realize what he had done. A thud of regret erased all his pleasure. What had he been thinking? She wasn’t the kind of woman who would take such a kiss casually.
Gently, he brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek. A dozen possible responses rose to his lips, but in the end, he only murmured, “That was nice.” His voice sounded raw.
Ramona managed even less. She simply nodded, her doe eyes round and stricken in her face.
He didn’t move, even though he knew he should. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m really not your kind of guy, am I?”
“No,” she said, “you aren’t.”
A thread of dismay wound through him, but he forced himself to straighten, move away from her and plaster an ironic and well-practiced grin on his face. “Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“No,” she said again. She, too, smiled, and he was relieved to see it wasn’t a cowed or uncertain smile at all, but wise and teasing. “And as kisses go, I’ve had worse.”
His smile turned real. “Me, too, Ramona.”
A sudden commotion from beyond the dark hallway drew their attention. Both looked toward the reception room without moving, then listened to the announcement that Tamara and Lance were off to their honeymoon.
“Well, I guess we’re free to go at last,” Jake said, and reached for his bow tie. “Thank God.”
“Amen,” Ramona returned. “I can’t wait to get out of this dress.”
His erotic vision of her nude and pliant body beneath him rushed back, bringing with it a certain heat and hunger that surprised him. “I’d be glad to help,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
She only smiled and held out her hand. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
Jake shook her hand, faintly aware of the absurdity of such a formal gesture after the kiss they had just shared. “I’m sure.”
“Go get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”
Then she was gone, disappearing out into the bright room, leaving Jake to stare after her with the oddest sensation in the area of his chest. Finally, he blinked, put the whole strange thing down to exhaustion and decided to follow the doctor’s orders.
He’d go home and get some sleep.
Chapter 3
But still Jake didn’t sleep. Not that night, or the next, or the next Not real sleep anyway. Sometimes exhaustion simply kicked in and he fell into a state of virtually comatose oblivion for an hour, or if he was very lucky, two. If the cards were in his favor, he might catch a couple of those short naps in a twenty-four-hour period.
In the four years since he’d quit the army, these insomniac episodes had occurred on a regular basis, but they’d been worse since his father died last year and Jake had come home to Red Creek for the first time in almost twenty years. If he’d had the energy, he would have worried about it.
/> Instead, he relied on a steady intake of sugar and caffeine to keep him going. His thoughts grew brittle, easy to shatter. He found it hard to concentrate. His face looked whittled away to pure bone. He had trouble holding conversations. The persistent sense of the world as being a movie he could only watch from a distance increased.
Since he’d be a danger in a kitchen, he stayed clear of the restaurant and left it in the capable hands of the manager.
He was fortunate his father had left him investments and the profits of the restaurant could support him. Work of any kind was impossible when he had one of these episodes.
That left only one place for him to feel comfortable—at the VA home, in the company of a World War II vet named Harry, a Medal of Honor winner, though he never discussed it. As a youth who revered all things military, Jake had mowed lawns for the old man and had hung on his every word. When it came time for Jake to apply to West Point, Harry’s letter of recommendation had been key to his acceptance.
So now, every other day, Jake smuggled in a bottle of Guinness and a pack of Winstons to his old friend.
The Friday after the wedding, he showed up in the morning and nodded to the nurse on duty. She grinned at him and shook her head. “He’s in the sun-room.”
They all knew Jake and Harry’s small duplicity and looked the other way. Harry had been pronounced terminal four years before and no one had the faintest idea why he was still alive. Jake—and he suspected many of the nurses along with him—figured Harry had earned the right to indulge these last small pleasures.
“Hey, old man,” Jake said as he entered the euphemistically labeled sun-room. It had a wall of windows, but the planning committee had neglected to realize that the windows faced north. North and mountains pretty well assured it would be the coldest, dimmest room in the hospital, but it was set up with checkers and a television, and the view was spectacular. Harry especially liked the view of Mount Gordon since he’d spent his life gauging the weather by the way the light fell on the peak.
Harry turned at the sound of Jake’s voice. Wizened and frail, he nonetheless dressed in a clean white shirt every morning and wet combed his thinning hair back neatly. “Jake!” he said, his voice reflecting the same surprise it always did. He frowned and peered over his round, wire-framed glasses. “You look like hell. You aren’t a young man anymore, you know.”
