Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  After all, she thought, what were memories? How different was this than the selective memories other children unknowingly created when they viewed the Super 8 mm films of their childhood? Those of Grandpa lying on the picnic blanket, Dad with a thick head of hair raking leaves in the yard, a slender, beautiful mother on Christmas morning? She was simply taking the initiative. These sentimental stories she wove tonight would become her own selective memories.

  Michael sat back and enjoyed listening to her unusual, husky voice and watching her absentminded gestures as she spoke. He loved the way she toyed with her long, silky hair or reached out to tap his hand to punctuate a point. He especially liked the way she stroked his sleeve while recollecting some detail. While she spoke, she was totally unaware of her potent allure, so intent was she on the telling. Occasionally he’d glimpse a sadness in her eyes when she paused to consider her answer, but once she began speaking again her eyes came alive and were focused solely on him. It was almost as though she were gauging his responses to her answers.

  As the candles dripped low, he felt pampered by her attention, flattered and very aroused. He was aware, even if she was not, that her eye-blasting beauty was mesmerizing and had attracted the attention not only of Tony and the rest of the waiters, but of every red-blooded man in the restaurant.

  By the time a bowl of fruit and chocolates arrived for dessert, it was already dark outdoors, two bottles of wine sat emptied and the candles were short stubs in their holders.

  “Not another bite,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair and tapping her fingers across her flat stomach.

  “Perhaps just a plum?”

  Sighing, she took the plum from his extended hand, their fingertips lightly grazing, then lifted the ripe fruit to her lips. He groaned inwardly when she bit into its fleshy sweetness, licking the droplets of juice from her lip with a rosy-tipped tongue. Blissfully unaware.

  He straightened, signaled the waiter abruptly and, within moments, settled the bill. He offered her his hand. “Shall we go?”

  She nodded and after dabbing her mouth with her impossibly huge napkin, placed it on the table and slowly, gracefully rose to her feet, her eyes on him.

  They drove back to her house in a comfortable silence pierced only by the music from the radio. The moist California air was heavily scented with pine and wild honeysuckle. Atop, the stars shone bright above the thick canopy of trees, and around them, the night songs of insects serenaded them as they cruised the dark, winding roads.

  When they reached her house he stopped, parked and turned off the engine. He heard her shift nervously in her seat and turned his head. She was looking forward, out the windshield. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, and the color of her lips made him think of the two ripe plums they’d had for dessert. When she bit them gently in anxiety, he could almost taste their sweetness. Her long, thin arms were clenched tight around her waist, pushing her full, rounded breasts high upon her chest. Under her sheath dress he saw the outline of her long stretch of legs and slender hips. Every sense—his sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch—all of them wanted her, demanded that he take her in his arms and taste the tender sweetness she promised.

  His senses told him, too, however, that she was cautious, even fearful. That she expected him to make a move—and dreaded it. He reached over and laid his hand on hers atop the leathery seat. She startled and he heard the sharp intake of breath. On instinct, he drew himself up, opened the door and climbed from the car. He didn’t miss the relief in her eyes when he guided her from the car, then to the front door. Their heels clicked on the pebbled path.

  When they reached the front door, he stopped, searching her face. She offered no invitation in her eyes. There were no coy mannerisms that hinted she might be persuaded to invite him in.

  “The house is dark. Is Melanie asleep?”

  “Perhaps we should say good-night here,” she replied, her voice strained. “So as not to wake her.” She offered him her hand, the image of proper deportment. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

  The disappointment was bitter. God, he wanted her. “You realize,” he said, holding on to her long fingers, “I’ll have to come back tomorrow to begin work on your garden.”

  She gave a wry smile. “It is, as you say, your job.”

  Touché, he thought. He felt tongue-tied, unsure, unable even to conduct a decent conversation. He was, he knew, merely lingering for one good-night kiss.

  “Well—” she swallowed, then cleared her throat “—I suppose then you’ll need your sleep.”

  He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to hers. “I’m not at all tired.” He was being too eager, like a schoolboy. He would have laughed if he weren’t so excited by it.

  All her composure fled. Her eyes darted left to right, her color heightened, and she, too, appeared absolutely tongue-tied. Perhaps even uncomfortable. That, he couldn’t bear to see.

  “Charlotte,” he said softly, rubbing his knuckles gently along her jaw. “Why are you afraid of me?”

  She tilted her chin downward, but he lifted it back up with his fingertips so that she had to look him in the eyes. Yes, there it was again. Fear—and, yes, desire. It inflamed him. He leaned forward. “Shhh, Charlotte. I won’t hurt you.”

  She leaned back, far against the door, then could move no farther. He continued on course, gaining ground by millimeters, his breath warming, her breath coming quicker, then, so close now, her breath mingled with his. His nostrils flared, picking up her scent. He heard her soft intake of breath and paused one nanosecond more. Then, in one smooth move, his lips were on hers.

  He was gentle at first, only slight pressure on her soft, dry lips. A gentle testing. She made no move against him, but he sensed her icy reserve beginning to melt. He pressed harder, holding back the fire burning inside himself. Whose lips trembled more, his or hers? Slowly, he brought his fingers up to cup her chin, tilting her mouth, sipping deeper her sweetness. She moaned, softly, opening her lips.

  His mind blurred and he lost his reserve. Desire raged through him, and he drank from the kisses like a man dying of thirst. He lunged forward, crushing her against him, letting her know, feel, his urgency. She shuddered in his arms, or was she still trembling? He couldn’t tell. His hands trembled, too, as they rounded her shoulders, caressing back and forth, then slid down the slim curve of her back and the gentle swell of her buttocks. Back up again to her shoulders, where he wrapped his arms tightly around her and held her against him, lips, chests, hips pressed tight.

  He heard a whimper, a soft, high sigh that pierced his black cloud of passion the way a single ray of dawn breaks the darkness. His body stilled and his hold loosened. For a moment he listened to their breathing, coming hard and warm. He released the folds of fabric bunched in his fist by her thigh and he stepped back, giving her room. Cool air rushed between them.

  He looked at her face, barely visible in the dim light. Still, he could see that her lips were swollen and magenta colored, the soft skin of her cheeks was chafed by the coarseness of his late evening bristle. She was looking away, so demurely he wondered if it was an act. He might feel like a teenager, but was far from it.

  “Charlotte? Is anything the matter?”

  She turned her gaze upward to meet his, and he saw with amazement, and some other fierce emotion he couldn’t identify, that her modesty was sincere. Her wide eyes hid nothing. She seemed frightened, even distrustful of his desire. He wanted her then as he’d never wanted any other woman, and because he knew that this feeling for her went beyond mere carnal lust, he found it in himself to back off.

  “It’s late,” he said. “I should go.”

  She tilted her head, then nodded.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Please.” She paused. “I’d like that.”

  He felt a wave a relief. “I’ll be here early, about nine?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  She’ll be waiting, he thought. Maybe so, but not as impat
iently as he would. He doubted he’d get any sleep tonight. It was unlike him to feel so unsure, so agitated. And she…she was looking at her hands, so calm and serene in the security of her incredible beauty.

  He felt a moment of doubt. Was he being played for a fool? How could someone like her be so naive? No, he’d been wrong. She was a temptress. A tease. How many men had she led on like this? Tortured? How many? In which way? The thought stabbed him with the prick of jealousy. Still, he was like a man addicted. He didn’t want to see the evening end, but couldn’t think of anything to say or do to delay his leaving. The silence lingered too long and grew awkward. She seemed troubled, her brows were knitted together.

  “Good night, then.” He turned to leave.

  “Michael,” she said in a voice so soft he wasn’t sure he’d heard it. Looking at his arm, he saw her hand lightly touching his sleeve. “Did you ever feel—” She paused to study the crease she was making in his shirt. “Did you ever feel as though one change—I don’t know, perhaps one star shifting in the sky or one, single decision—one small change occurs in a life and it’s like a pivotal piece is moved and suddenly everything falls into place? Everything is…different.”

  “Yes,” he said, looking into her eyes with a sense of heightened wonder. Could she know that was how he felt when he saw her that day in his nursery? A new thought struck him. Perhaps this was all predestined. His father calling him home. His working at the nursery. All to bring him here, at this point in time, to meet her.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “Absolutely I believe that.”

  She smiled brightly then and moved her hand to cover his heart. His larger one covered hers.

  “I hoped you’d say that, Michael,” she replied. “Please. I want you to stay.”

  Ten

  She led him through the quiet house, dark except for the kitchen light.

  “Melanie?” he asked, looking toward the light.

  “She’s not here.”

  He didn’t reply, but squeezed her hand.

  It seemed a long way to her bedroom. For her, a journey of a lifetime. Twenty-two years. Her heart raced on ahead, eager to be there, in his arms, skin to skin. Her mind, however, was back out on the porch, closing the door, locking him out. No, her heart called back, singing. Come, hurry! It’s your turn, it’s your time. He’s the one.

  He was the one, she knew it in her heart. Other men didn’t matter. Those who offered furtive glances—all so annoying and so forgettable. Only Michael mattered. Everything about him captivated her, but it was the details that evoked this newfound sensuality in herself. She loved the way he listened to her, leaning back in his chair, relaxed, attentive, even amused. She loved the way his eyes lit up under those heavy brows at something she said, the way he cocked his head, lifted his shoulders in a shrug, the way his beautiful hands stroked the wineglass. Yes, especially that. She was driven near mad staring at his middle finger tracing a watery path across the condensation on his water goblet.

  That was when she knew she wanted him. The way a woman wants a man at night, in a romantic restaurant, over drinks and glowing candles and intimate conversation. Of course, she’d been terrified of the possibility that they would be together tonight, that her long-endured celibacy would come to an end. Still, the wanting in her core was a burning thing—the fingers stroking the glass hinted at what could be, his pouting mouth, pursed in thought as he considered, then asked, question after question…. God, she felt obsessed with desire for one kiss from that mouth.

  And when he did kiss her, her fears melted like ice. An Antarctic glacier slipping into the ocean. No more fears, she told herself as she approached her room. No worries, no regrets.

  Her room was dark when they entered. Her hand reached for the light switch, but Michael’s hand covered hers and drew it away to his lips. Her heart fluttered as he kissed each fingertip.

  “Your hands are like ice,” he said, rubbing them under his breath. “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head.

  “Wait,” he said, and walked to the windows, pulling back the drapes. A pale stream of moonlight flooded the room. The whiteness of his shirt was opaque in the shaft of gold light. When he turned, she could see the whiteness of his eyes as well, standing out against his bare, tanned skin. They shone with intent. He was a study of contrasts: dark and light; tender yet strong. She, standing a short distance away, felt she was a study of shadows and secrets. He would make it all right, she thought, thinking of the lies she’d told at dinner. She would tell him the truth soon.

  The hum of a zipper sounded in the silence, startling her. Unbidden, the image of Lou Kopp flashed before her. “Let’s you and I have a little party.” She shuddered and turned away.

  Michael immediately reached out for her.

  She balked and stifled a protest.

  “Charlotte?” he called to her, his voice gentle and questioning. He held out his arms again and waited. He was magnificent in his nakedness, all lean and broad shouldered, his skin the warm color of amber, his thick wavy hair falling to his shoulders. “Charlotte, you’re shivering. Come here, querida.”

  She looked into his face, so full of gentleness. The specter of Lou Kopp vanished. She walked into his arms and he wrapped them around her.

  “Michael,” she began, her lips against the soft black hairs of his chest. Beneath her palm, she felt his heart beating. “You should know…”

  “Know what, my sweet,” he replied, nuzzling her forehead, her cheeks, her neck.

  She sighed and tilted her head back as his kisses sent tingling shivers down her spine. “I’ve never done this before.”

  His kisses stopped abruptly as he froze, then slowly he righted himself, and holding her shoulders with his hands, he bent at the knees to stare into her eyes. “What are you saying?” he asked in seriousness. “You’ve never…”

  “No. I’ve never made love. I’m a virgin.”

  He stared at her, blinking once. It didn’t seem possible. He played the words over again in his mind. Then slowly, a small smile tilted the corners of his mouth, changing to a wide grin of surprise. “My darling, I never thought. Are you sure?”

  She giggled. “Quite sure.”

  “No,” he replied, chuckling a little. “Are you sure you want to? Make love. Tonight. With me?”

  She brought her hands up to cup his face like blinders so that he would stare only into her eyes. “Oh, yes. Quite sure,” she repeated. “It’s just that I’m not sure what to do. How to make you happy. And—” she giggled again “—I’m a little nervous. I’m ready, willing, hopefully able. But very nervous.”

  He pressed her head against his chest again and lay his lips to the top of her head, then just held her, squeezing her tight for a second. Then again. Charlotte felt cherished, treasured. Unafraid.

  “We shall go very slowly” was all he said, but his hands trembled as he ran his fingers down her hair and traced her jaw. Moving steadily down, he unbuttoned the seemingly countless tiny buttons on her dress, released her new lacy bra and slid away her silk panties, first one leg, then the other. It was like a choreographed ballroom dance. His hands never left her body, never broke the tender connection between them, turning her left, then right, as he undressed her, then, holding her hand, led her to the double bed.

  “Don’t be shy,” he said when she ducked her head.

  “Don’t you know how beautiful you are?” She had the voluptuous body of a temptress and the innocence of a girl. How could such a thing be possible? he wondered. How could he be so lucky?

  He was as good as his word. She sensed he was holding back, going very slowly for her sake. He laid her down on the sheets, then arched over her, his dark hair falling forward. She closed her eyes, waiting, her arms by her side.

  She truly was inexperienced, he thought. She positively trembled beneath him. He wanted to be gentle for her. To be patient and hold back his desire. He lowered his head. His kisses alighted here and there across her face, her shoulders, h
er breasts.

  She was inexperienced, true, but even she knew that he was being exceedingly gentle. Unlike Lou…No, she shook her head, clearing it. She wouldn’t think of that night. “Michael,” she whispered, wanting his name on her lips.

  He answered her with his mouth, searing his name on her lips. She willed herself to relax beneath him as his fingers explored her body, encircled her breasts, then slid down her taut belly to skim her inner thighs.

  “Relax, my love,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you. Shhh…we’ll take our time.”

  His fingers found a spot so tender that she arched against him in surprise. He caressed her there in small, gentle circles, swallowing her sighs. She felt as though liquid fire flowed through her veins to where a small nut of desire was beginning to crack in the heat. She began to move her hips involuntarily, sharply focused on the spiraling within her.

  “Michael,” she called again, this time in urgency.

  He moaned, vying for control. He’d felt her sudden tightening, heard her sudden intake of breath, and he was blinded by the fire that burned upward to his brain. It ripped away his rationale, making him feel like a raging animal, wanting all of her, now. With a groan he arched above her, creating some space between them. Baring his teeth against her shoulder, he closed his eyes tight in concentration and told himself, Slow down…. Holding his breath, he ordered himself, For her.

  His body responded and he felt his control return in ebbs, amazed that it had been so difficult. He’d never felt so excited, or unsure of his skills. He wanted this to be perfect for her. This joining was so much more than another sexual encounter. It was an honor. So many women he’d had, but she was his first virgin. He’d heard the stories. There would be pain, and blood. It was said she would remember him always.