Words of Silk

by Sandra Brown

  Still, as the days passed in apparent harmony, she continued to worry. Then something happened that made her financial future look brighter. But it was shocking in its own right.

  One afternoon, while Deke was on the telephone with one of his subordinates in New York, her line rang and she heaved herself off the couch to answer it. Deke finished his conversation first, so he was standing beside her chair when she hung up. Her eyes stared vacantly at the instrument for several seconds.

  “Nothing wrong, I hope,” Deke prodded.

  She shook off her disturbing thoughts and absently reached to take the hand extended toward her. “No. It’s nothing bad. Rather good, in fact.” Then she lapsed back into her private musings.

  “Laney,” he said, laughing and shaking her hand as though to wake her up. “Am I going to have to pry it out of you?”

  “Oh, sorry. That was a realtor in Tulsa. I had put my mother’s house on the market when I left. I told the realtor I was in no hurry to sell. All the furniture is still there. She called to say she had showed it to a couple several times and they’re ready to sign a contract.”

  “That is good news.”

  She tried to smile but didn’t succeed. “Yes.”

  “Come here.” He drew her down onto the sofa. “What’s bothering you?”

  She looked away, annoyed with herself. “It’s silly. I wanted the house to sell, of course, but . . .”

  “Is your mother dead, Laney?”

  “Yes,” she said, whipping her head around and staring at him in confusion. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  “I assumed it when you told me you had no family. But you’ve never spoken of her.”

  “I haven’t?” she asked in a thready voice. “How strange.”

  He pondered that a moment as he studied her. “When did she die?”

  “Almost two years ago.”

  “How?”

  She pushed her hair back with a shaking hand. “We thought she had an ulcer. It turned out to be . . . something worse.” Her hand fluttered around her throat. “She died only a few weeks after she went into the hospital.”

  He squeezed her hands. “You don’t have to sell the house if you’d rather not. Why don’t you let me call the realtor and tell her to put it on ice for a while until you feel better about it?”

  Her initial impulse was to say yes to his suggestion. But common sense interfered. If Deke should try to gain legal custody of her child, she would need the money the sale of the house would bring. “No, no,” she said. “I’ll never live there again. It’s best to sell it. The realtor wants me there on Saturday.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “I’ll drive myself.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “The shrubbery needs pruning,” Laney remarked as they pulled into the driveway of the home she and her mother had shared as far back as she could remember. It was in an older section of the city. There were cracks in the sidewalks and the pavement was pockmarked.

  Her nerves were frayed to the breaking point, and seeing the house had almost made them snap. Deke had been resolute about driving her to Tulsa. She wished she had come alone. If she became emotional, she didn’t want him to be a witness to it.

  “I heard the realtor say the buyers had already hired someone to restore the yard,” Deke said, looking through the windshield at the house.

  “Yes. They’re eager to move in.”

  “You can’t blame them for that. They paid cash.”

  Laney was still dazed by the events that had taken place in the realtor’s office only an hour before. The retired couple had met her there, cash in hand. The papers had already been drawn up and were ready to sign. Deke had studied them with the thoroughness of an attorney and nodded his approval. But when he saw the shattered look on Laney’s face, he took her aside and whispered, “Sign them only if you want to, darling. It’s not too late to back out.”

  “No. I’ll sign them.”

  The buyers wanted to buy the appliances and any pieces of furniture Laney wanted to leave in the house. He had been career Army and they had moved all over the world, accumulating very little furniture themselves.

  “The sale includes everything in the house,” Laney said. “But I’d like to walk through it to make sure no personal items were left behind. Then I’ll return the key.”

  Now she wished she hadn’t insisted on even that condition. She dreaded going into the house, though she wasn’t sure why. Her feet were leaden as Deke escorted her to the front door and unlocked it.

  The interior was shadowed, gloomy and silent in the way of vacated houses with all the drapes drawn. The atmo-sphere was funereal and dank and oppressive. Laney had remembered the rooms as being larger than they actually were. She walked from one to another, glancing around, touching nothing.

  Her bedroom was empty save for the furniture. Everything she had wanted, she had taken with her when she left. Her mother’s bedroom had been cleared as well. Laney had done that a few weeks after her death. All of her mother’s clothes and belongings had been donated to a charity.

  After the dismal tour she stood once again in the entrance hall, looking forlorn and disoriented. “There’s nothing here you want, Laney?” Deke asked, breaking the silence for the first time since they’d entered the house.

  He was amazed. There had been no exclamations of delight over an object that brought back a fond memory, no poignant tears. He and his brothers and sisters had raided the attic on a recent visit to his parents’ house. It had been an afternoon of reflection and hilarity as discarded treasures were rediscovered. Laney, however, seemed a stranger to this house.

  “No,” she said. “Nothing.”

  It occurred to Deke then that the house was more than empty. It was hollow. It was like a movie set. Everything was properly arranged, but it was two-dimensional. It had no depth, no personality, no nucleus, nothing to hold it together. “What about all the personal things, memorabilia, family photographs, things like that?”

  “There were no photographs. Mother didn’t own a camera.”

  “There are no pictures of you as you were growing up?” His incredulity couldn’t be masked.

  She looked at him with a flare of defiance. “We didn’t go in for sentiment.”

  What kind of mother didn’t collect hoards of pictures of her child? “Maybe your grandparents . . .” he ventured.

  “I didn’t have any. No one. Only mother.” Restlessly she began to prowl the living room. He stalked her.

  “When did your father die?”

  “I was little. I don’t remember.”

  “Your mother supported the two of you alone. That couldn’t have been easy. What kind of work did she do?”

  Her insides were coiling tighter and tighter. She didn’t want to answer any of his questions, yet he tracked her footsteps doggedly. “She worked in the credit union of a big company.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Like?”

  “Yes, what kind of person was she?”

  She rounded on him. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “I want to know. What was your mother like?”

  “About my size. Brown hair, blue—”

  “I don’t mean physically, I mean her personality.”

  “Personality?” Why was he following her around the room this way, peppering her with questions?

  “Was she a happy-go-lucky sort? Melancholy, stern, frivolous, intellectual? What was she like?”

  “She was my mother!” she shouted at him. “That’s all, just a mother.”

  “And you loved her.”

  “Yes!”

  “And she loved you.”

  She froze, her hands tightly gripping the back of a wing chair with a seat cushion that sagged with age. “Yes,” she managed. “Of course she loved me. I was her little girl.”

  He saw the white knuckles, the tense lines of her face. He was pushing and he knew it, but it had to be done or Laney w
ould forever be held by some kind of tragedy to the prevailing sadness in this house. “What happened to your father?”

  “I told you he died.”

  “Of what? When?”

  “I don’t remember!”

  “Surely your mother mentioned him from time to time, told you stories about him. She didn’t remarry. She must have loved your father very much to hold fast to his memory all those years.”

  She licked her lips with a virtually dry tongue. “She . . . she didn’t talk about him much.”

  “Do you think that’s natural? Why do you think she didn’t talk about him much?”

  Agitated, she shoved away from the chair and flew to the window, gripping the drapes with lifeless hands. “How should I know?”

  “You know, Laney. Tell me why your mother didn’t talk about your father.”

  “That was a long time ago. What does it matter?”

  “It matters. Tell me.”

  She spun around and her eyes were glassy with emotion. “She didn’t talk about him because she hated him. She got pregnant and he married her out of duty. But as soon as I got here, he left. Vanished. He deserted us. She never saw him again. I never knew him. Now, there, are you satisfied, Counselor?”

  Her hair was a wild tangle around her head and her breasts were laboring with each breath. Her arms were held rigidly at her sides and both fists were clenched.

  “I’m sorry, Laney. That must have been terrible for both you and your mother.”

  “Go to hell,” she said tightly, giving him her back and flinging open the drapes. It was getting dark outside and that only added to the morbid feel of the house. “You found out what you wanted to know. Now leave me alone.”

  He couldn’t. He had gone this far. They had made progress, but they weren’t at the source of her anxiety yet. He hated himself for being so thorough, but he had to be. “So your mother, since she didn’t have anyone else, poured out all her affection on you. She lavished you with love.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were the apple of her eye.”

  “Yes,” she said more loudly.

  “She told you frequently how much she loved you.”

  “Yes,” she screamed.

  “She demonstrated what a wonderful thing it was to love and be loved, is that right? She fondled you and hugged you and kissed you every day.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” She spun around to face him once again.

  “You’re lying, Laney.”

  She sucked in her breath. “No. No, I’m not.”

  “I think your mother was embittered by what your father did to her. I think that instead of showering you with love she held you responsible for all her hardships.” He advanced toward her, keeping his voice level. “I think she blamed you for coming along and ruining a budding relationship with her young man.”

  “Stop it,” Laney cried, and clasped her hands over her ears.

  He came closer, matching his steps to his words, like hammer blows on a nailhead. “I think you loved her because she was your mommy. You wanted her to love you back but she never did. Or if she did, she guarded against telling you. I think you wanted to throw your arms around her and hug her every day, but you knew she wouldn’t like that. You learned that hugging and holding are invasions, violations of one’s private space.”

  “Stop!” She was pounding her fists against her thighs. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “She took good care of me.”

  “Physically, yes, she provided for you. But there’s more to parenting than that. You wanted her to touch you, didn’t you, Laney, to cuddle you against her breasts, to caress you?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed. “I mean no. You’re confusing me.”

  He shook his head. Tears were in his own eyes. “No, my darling, you’re getting unconfused.”

  She thrust out her hand, palm toward him. “Stop. Don’t come any closer to me.”

  “I’m going to hold you, Laney, for all the times your mother didn’t.”

  “No! I don’t want you to.”

  “Yes you do. Don’t you?”

  “No, no.” She groaned and pitched forward, sobbing uncontrollably.

  He was there to catch her. His arms encircled her and tightly held her to him. “Yes you do,” he murmured into her hair. “Yes you do.”

  Mechanically her hands clutched at his clothing. She wadded handfuls of his shirt between her fingers. He loved it. The tears she was crying now weren’t tears of agony but healthy, cleansing tears. Cupping the back of her head, he pressed her face into his neck and rested his chin on the top of her head. “You poor baby,” he intoned. “So lovable and so unloved. God. You precious girl.”

  She sank into the strength of his body. “Deke?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Deke?” She couldn’t quite believe that he was really there, holding her. Loving her.

  He placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. She made a whimpering, desperate sound before clasping his hair between her fingers and dragging his face down to hers. Her lips yearned upward toward his. “Love me, love me.”

  He hissed a blasphemous curse that stressed his surprise and joy. He lowered her to the floor. The carpet smelled of age and dust, but they didn’t notice. Laney reached for him with every straining part of her body. Mindful of her condition, he lowered himself beside her carefully but no less fervently.

  He pulled her to him and cemented their mouths together while their hands battled to gain the most ground. His hands scaled her back and slid below her waist to cup her hips and press her into his hard passion. She adjusted herself to him willingly and their sighs of ecstasy echoed across the still room.

  Her hands fumbled with his heavy overcoat and he shrugged it away impatiently. Fingers usually dextrous stumbled over each button of his shirt as she worked them free of the holes. Then her palms glided over his bared chest and stomach and the springy hairs tickled and thrilled her.

  He pulled her coat away. As his mouth feasted on hers his tongue plunging deeply, he opened the buttons of her dress and found her breasts.

  “Oh, yes,” she moaned, and arched higher to him.

  Clumsily he struggled with the clasp of her bra until it came undone and freed her breasts for his mouth. Then, with gentle hands and fevered lips and finessing tongue, he caressed her and brought her nipples to peaks. She made small crying noises as they frantically adjusted their clothing. Their movements were frenzied, their breathing labored. Then the rasp of his zipper was the only sound as they were held in a suspended silence laden with anticipation.

  Slowly he lowered himself over her. “What if I hurt you?”

  “Please, Deke.” She slid her hands into his open shirt. Bravely she touched his flat brown nipples. Deke gritted his teeth.

  Her dress and slip were bunched around her waist. He felt for her tenderly. The nest of dark golden hair was lush and silky and he let his fingers nestle in its promise until she moaned with gratification and growing need. He palmed the soft mound and his fingers searched downward. When he found her melted warmth, he positioned himself between her thighs.

  He introduced himself into that sweet heat with infinite care. He barely breached the threshold, but it was enough of his fullness to reduce her breathing to shallow gasps. His movements were slow and precise. Deftly he stroked only what he knew needed to be stroked to bring her to completion. His own need was to bury himself as deeply and as snugly inside her as he could. He fiercely ignored that desire and concentrated only on bringing joy to one who had had so little of it.

  “Oh, God, it feels so good,” she whispered on ragged breaths.

  He smiled down on her rapturous face and dipped his head. “I’m glad. To me too.” His tongue found her nipples taut and flushed and it laved them thoroughly while the velvet tip of his stiff manhood worked its slow, delicious magic.

  Laney knew she was slipping into that sublime oblivion that he had guided her to before. She didn’t want to go alone and she had enoug
h presence of mind left to know the sacrifice Deke was making for her. Forgetting any remnant of shyness, she slid her hand between their bodies where they were joined.

  His heart nearly burst. Her name was a groaning sigh on his lips as her fingers encircled what he wouldn’t impose on her. Her hand made it almost as good for him as being inside her, and when he saw her face suffuse with light and her body began to quicken around him, he let go of that grueling discipline. He tensed and shuddered and let his love pour into her.

  Long moments later she opened her eyes to meet his liquid-green stare. “What happened to me?” she asked throatily.

  He lifted a tousled blond strand from her cheek and rubbed the silky hair across his lips. “I loved you. And you loved me back. And it was wonderful.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It’s beginning to snow. We’d better go.” They were lying facing each other, her cheek against his chest. Legs were entwined and arms were wrapped around each other. Deke hated to break that closeness, but the roads would become hazardous if they didn’t try to beat the storm back to Sunnyvale.

  “All right.” Laney disengaged herself from his embrace.

  The next few minutes were awkward as they rearranged their clothing. They were like two who had survived a tragedy and didn’t want to be held responsible for the way they had behaved during the crisis. They couldn’t quite meet each other’s eyes.

  Laney was mortified that once again she had begged him to make love to her. Deke was afraid that he had ruined their tenuous relationship by once again taking advantage of her emotionally unstable condition.

  Laney locked the door behind them and they stumbled through a fierce wind and icy pellets of sleet and snow to reach his car. “Oh, the key,” she said.

  “We’ll mail it back.” Deke hustled her into the car. They drove in silence while he negotiated the treacherously icy streets. After having driven east for half an hour they edged ahead of the storm and the highway was dry. He could turn more of his attention to Laney, who was sitting silently, staring out the window.