Another Eden

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Alex—”

  “Sorry. Sorry. But it’s like going to the Grand Canyon and then forgetting to tell anyone the view was nice.”

  Sara snorted, a rude, unladylike explosion in her throat that made Alex bark out a loud, delighted laugh. They kissed wetly, their smiles colliding. She had almost forgotten his hand, which twitched to life between her legs then. Once in a while Ben caressed her like this—no, not like this. No, not in the least like this. She arched, wincing. “Alex!”

  But this time he knew he wasn’t hurting her. It wasn’t pain, it was the newness that stunned her. He kept on, watching her face, anticipating every response. But she couldn’t let go. Twice he brought her to the brink; both times she stopped, physically stopped, as if she feared the thing that might happen next was much too perilous and unpredictable to risk giving in to.

  “Sara,” he murmured against her throat. She couldn’t speak. “I’m going to kiss you here.”

  Her eyes opened. His stroking fingers told her the place he had in mind. “Alex, you can’t be serious.”

  “I love the way you talk,” he mentioned, touching his lips to her chin. “I’ve never appreciated it as much as now, though. The incongruity.”

  “The what?”

  “The disparity. Between the accent and the sight of you, legs open, enjoying my tongue on your pretty little quim.”

  “Alex,” she groaned, unable, and completely unwilling, to stop him from spreading her thighs wide and putting his mouth on her in the place he’d been teasing with his fingers. Her “quim”? What a funny—she groaned again, so loud she felt his sharp breath on her, exhaling in another of his gleeful laughs. “Oh Jesus—bloody hell—Alex!” She clamped down on her lips with her teeth. Stupid to think she wouldn’t have picked up a curse of Ben’s after eight years—but funny she’d never used one until now. Another of Alex’s chuckles vibrated through her, driving her higher. “What—are—you—doing?” She had to know; her body was a wreck.

  He loomed over her suddenly. “Let go, Sara. It’s definitely time.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve got a pretty good idea, though. Let go, love. Follow me. Trust me. I’m going back now.”

  This time she laughed, a helpless sound cut short by the prompt and dutiful fulfillment of his promise. His clever hands slid softly across her stomach and the insides of her thighs with sweet, endless patience, while his tongue fluttered light and insistent against the most sensitive place on her body. She didn’t even hear it—he knew because he would ask her, later—but for the rest of his life he would remember what she said next. “Oh, okay.” Then she exploded. He held to her tightly, sharing the ride, glorying with her in her deep, powerful, surprised release. When it was over, he thought of all the lewd, luscious things he could have done to prolong it. Next time.

  He climbed up her damp, shuddering body, panting with her, until their faces touched. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet; she was still tense, savoring it, her throat muscles corded and tight. He kissed her with slow, thorough finesse until she pulled her mouth away to look at him. He wanted praise, he realized; not thanks—praise. She smiled dreamily at him, breathing, “Oh, my,” and he guessed he’d gotten it.

  “Poor Sara,” he crooned to her. “What a shame you’re not any good at this.”

  She put her arms around him and squeezed. “What did you do to me? Am I still alive?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He fondled her left breast, tweaking the nipple until it tightened. “Seems to be a little life left here. Over here, too.”

  Snickering, she wrapped her legs around him. He groaned. She jumped. “What? Have I hurt you?

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh. Oh. I beg your pardon—now it’s your turn. Do we ever do this together? Go ahead, do anything you’d like, I want you to.”

  “Well, thanks very much, that’s very accommodating of you. Oh, sweetheart—I’m not laughing at you.”

  “You are, though. This is new to me, Alex.”

  “I know. I know.” He soothed her with kisses and sweet, whispered compliments. He’d never in his wildest imaginings thought to find her so innocent; long ago he’d made an assumption that she was at least as worldly as she looked. “That’s never happened to you before?” he probed gently.

  “No, never.”

  “Not even touching yourself?”

  “Not even what?” Her shocked mind raced.

  He smiled, sad as well as amused. “I’ll explain later.”

  She hoped so. “It happens to—” She stopped.

  “To Ben,” he finished grimly. “I’ll bet it does. It happens to Ben every time and never to you. What’s wrong with this picture, Sara?”

  “We said we wouldn’t talk about him,” she reminded him unhappily.

  “Believe me, the last thing I want to talk about is your husband.”

  She stroked the harsh line between his brows with her fingertips, then kissed it until it went away. “Make love to me the other way, Alex.”

  “The other way?”

  “You know.”

  “No, how?”

  “You know. Using…”

  “What?”

  “Alex.”

  “What?”

  Finally she saw his game—he wanted her to touch him. She smiled, a slow, seductive smile, totally new, and obliged him. His head fell back; he drew a quick breath through his teeth. How different, caressing him like this, from what it was like when Ben made her touch him. She loathed being forced to give him pleasure. She smiled down into Alex’s face, watching his closed eyes, the rather tortured-looking smile stretching his lips. Stroking the thick, silky length of him excited her unbearably. “What do you like?” she whispered.

  “I’m easy,” he whispered back, “I like everything.”

  “Indiscriminate.”

  “Agreeable.” He hummed his deep satisfaction. “What I would like right now…”

  “Yes?”

  “Is to be inside you.”

  She shut her eyes tight. “Oh, yes.”

  He shifted, moving over her, sweeping her body with his hands. He loved the feel of her thighs parting under his, so eager and giving. He came into her carefully, alive to every subtle shade of her response. But this time their slow joining was a deep, arousing connection that reminded Sara of nothing and had no antecedents. And for the first time, she knew how it was supposed to end. In awe, she monitored her body’s glad rise toward the new and delicious goal. Gratitude distracted her; she kissed him passionately, murmuring fervent thanks. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know. Oh, Alex.”

  “What, love?”

  “That it could be like this.” The lightness of it erased all the shame from an act that for years she’d found lifeless and degrading. “I love you, love you, love you,” she chanted, while tears welled in her eyes, blurring his face.

  He filled his hands with her hair, let it fan out across the pillow. “Golden Sara,” he named her, stopping the tear that slid down her temple with his tongue. It had never been like this for him, either. The distinction between loving and lovemaking had always seemed irrelevant. Now it was nonexistent, and he was connected at last to his deepest feelings; he was home.

  Their clasped hands tightened; desire drove them up higher until their kisses became artless afterthoughts and every sense narrowed and focused on the extreme objective just out of reach. He thought fleetingly of holding back, of deepening her pleasure by delaying it, but such cunning was beyond him now. Her body trembled on the edge. When she gasped into the air over his shoulder, “Shall I wait for you?” he had the full measure of her innocence. He smothered a gusty, euphoric laugh in her hair. “No, dear, don’t wait,” he advised kindly, groaning. “You never want to wait.” They kissed for the last time, and then the storm broke. Sara felt her body shatter into slivers of bright light and disappear. She might have been frightened, but her lover was with her this time in the weightless black void,
sharing her intense pleasure. When it subsided, when their bodies finally reformed and rested against each other in exhaustion and gratefulness, they found that the light had moved into their hearts. For good or ill, no matter what came next, they knew it would never go out.

  “What are you doing in there? I thought you were supposed to be my helper.” Alex pushed corned beef hash, fresh from the can, to the side of the black iron skillet and cracked four eggs into the empty space. “Want more coffee?”

  No answer.

  He picked up the pot and carried it across the kitchen to the room he used as a studio. In the doorway, he had to stop. Sara Cochrane, millionaire fashion plate, was leaning over his lamplit drafting board in nothing but his shirt. It was a sight he had never allowed himself even to dream of. “Pretty lady,” he said softly. She looked up and smiled. Her hair, down and loose around her shoulders, looked like spun gold in the lamp’s glow. She had long, beautiful legs, and he’d meant every word about her elegant English feet. She was cupping her coffee mug in both hands, the long sleeves of his shirt pushed up past her elbows. “What’s got you so enthralled?” he wondered. “The framing plans for Ben’s solarium? Section elevations for the Roman bath?”

  “No. This.”

  Moving to her, he saw with surprise the sketch she’d found, probably at the bottom of his stack of drawings.

  “If you hadn’t been an architect, you could’ve been an artist. Alex, this is beautiful.”

  He poured coffee into her cup, then set the pot down on the drafting table. “Thanks.”

  “Do you always do a watercolor drawing of the houses you design?”

  “No, not always. Only when color is important.”

  “This is a house, isn’t it?” she asked, suddenly unsure.

  He chuckled. “I like to think so.”

  “Yes, of course, but—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What do you think of it?” he asked, with great casualness, sliding two fingers up and down either side of her spine. “That bad?” he prodded when she hesitated.

  “Oh no, I think it’s—magnificent. It’s made of wood, isn’t it?”

  “Redwood. And this is stucco.”

  She stared at the sketch, drawn first to the warmth of the colors—ochre and chocolate and rich umber browns—and then to the rash, exuberant design. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said again. “There’s so much glass—how light it must be inside. The colors are amber and—I can’t even describe it. So beautiful. Are these tiles?”

  “Colored stones.”

  “And these on the sides, they’re so—” She had no words again to describe the clean, whimsical, trellis-like structures on either end of the house that seemed to be functional as well as decorative. “Imagine living here,” she said wonderingly. “Who is it for, Alex?”

  He pulled along lock of her hair away from her ear so that he could kiss her. “No one. It was just an exercise.”

  “Oh.” She felt oddly disappointed. “I can’t imagine it in New York. At least not in the city.”

  “No. If I built it anywhere, I’d build it in California.”

  “Would you? Would you like to live there again?”

  He shrugged, and dropped his hand. “New York is my home now. Come on, let’s eat—I thought you said you were starving.”

  They ate dinner in bed. “Alex, this is wonderful. How do you keep the eggs from breaking? You’re a much better cook than I am,” she said sincerely.

  He thanked her without mentioning that, according to what Michael had once confided to him, man to man and in great secrecy, that probably wasn’t saying much.

  “I’ve never eaten in bed before,” she admitted, biting into a piece of toasted bread. “I can see I’ve been missing out on one of life’s deepest pleasures.” He smiled at her; she could tell he was thinking, as she was, that that wasn’t the only one. They had opened the door and the windows; the sea was a soft, steady roar and the salt tang of the breeze smelled fresh and clean. “Are you sure no one ever walks by here?” she worried, a little unnerved by the well-lit spectacle they would make for anyone who did.

  “Never. We might as well be on an island.”

  “Why do you like being an architect?” she asked directly, setting her plate aside.

  “That’s easy. I’m trying to achieve immortality.

  She was fairly sure he was joking. “Is it because you like being rich?”

  He paused in the chewing of a mouthful of toast and looked at her. Her face contained nothing but curiosity and the question wasn’t weighted with any moral judgments; she honestly wanted to know. Her candor prompted him to respond in kind. “I’ve never been rich, so I don’t know if I’d like it or not. I assume I would. But that’s not why I became an architect. Anyway, most architects die poor. It’s the contractor and the realtor and the building trades unionist who get rich.”

  “I see. What, then?”

  He had to think for a second; no one had ever asked him the question in quite this way before. “I like to organize space.”

  He paused, and she thought he was finished. She said, “Oh.”

  “And I like to try to figure out how things will go—how people will act and react in a space. What they need. What they want. And then I try to give it to them in a way that’s so functional and satisfying and beautiful, it makes them happy.” He grinned, hearing the arrogance in his answer. But it was the truth.

  Sara smiled back serenely. She heard it too, and was equally unconcerned. “I think you’re going to be a great man.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yes, I do.” She began to peel a banana for dessert. Snuggling closer, she rubbed her cheek on the soft gray silk of his robe. “Now tell me about California.”

  “Not much to tell.”

  “Was it hard, burying your grandfather?”

  “No, it was easy.” He looked down at her patient face, her gray-blue eyes gone soft with sympathy. “I wish my mother could’ve known you, Sara. And you can believe I’ve never said that to another woman.”

  That led her to a digression. “You’ve had lots of women, haven’t you?”

  He stroked his mustache, stalling. “Sweetheart—”

  “It’s all right, I don’t—” She gave a little laugh. “I was going to say I don’t mind, but that wouldn’t be quite true.”

  He kept quiet.

  “How is Constance?” she asked, forcing the words out, hating herself for them.

  “I don’t see her anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He rolled onto his hip, facing her. “Because I’m in love with someone else.”

  She touched his face. “Did you used to be in love with her?”

  “No.” He turned his head to kiss her hand. “I have known a few other women, Sara. I liked them all. I didn’t love any of them.”

  “Why?”

  He thought. “Because they weren’t you.”

  “Oh, Alex. You don’t have to take such good care of me. I won’t break if you tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth. There’s no one but you.”

  They reached for each other. She pressed her face to his throat, inhaling his clean scent. Finally she pulled away, flicking her fingers at the wetness on her eyelashes. “Tell me about your mother. When did you lose her?”

  “When I was seven.”

  “It must have been awful.” He nodded slowly. She sensed that he wanted to talk, but it was hard for him. “Do you look like her?”

  “She said I look just like my father.”

  “But you never knew him.”

  “No.”

  “I never knew mine, either.”

  Alex put a hand on her stomach, fingering the buttons of his shirt as he spoke. “They met in Oakland, my parents. He was studying engineering at the college—he was going to be an architect—and she had a job as a maid in the boarding house where he lived. She’d jus
t left home and come to the city, she had no money, and it was the only job she could get. She didn’t mind it, though; she said the work was easy and the students were nice to her. If you could’ve seen her, Sara, you’d believe that—she was so pretty. At eighteen, she must have been beautiful.”

  She smiled, stroking his hand. “And your father? What was he like?”

  “Oh, she said he was tall, handsome, brilliant. Charming. She fell in love with him on sight, though, so I had to take that on faith.”

  Still, she noticed, his voice was proud when he spoke of his father. “What was his name?”

  “Brian McKie.”

  “Oh. So she named you—”

  “I was Alexander Holyfield until the day I ran away from home. Then I took his name. They loved each other—he’d have married her if he’d lived, and then it would’ve been mine legally.” He paused, then said bitterly, “But I’d have taken ‘Smith’ or ‘Jones’ or ‘Rappaport’ by then. I didn’t want anything that had ever belonged to Matthew Holyfield.”

  “Why, Alex? What did he do to you?” Keeping her hand, he shifted onto his back again. “You don’t need to know this, Sara.”

  “I’d like to, though. What did he do that you can’t forgive?”

  Habit, not desire, prevented him from telling her, he realized. His past shamed him; he kept it a secret. Until Sara, he’d never been tempted to reveal it to anyone. “It wasn’t just me,” he said carefully, feeling his way. “If it had been, I could’ve stood it, because I was a tough little beggar. It was what he did to my mother and my grandmother. And a lot of other people in his congregation.”

  “His congregation? He was a minister?”

  “Self-appointed. ‘Preacher’ is a better word— ‘minister’ sounds too much like he cared about people. He didn’t. He took their faith and used it to set himself up as their judge, their conscience. There was nothing he liked better than a sinner he could save. His specialty was leaping on some poor bastard who’d made the mistake of confiding in him, standing him up in front of the whole congregation of Blessed Brethren—that’s what he called his church—and making him confess his pitiful ‘sins.’ But when you finished, you weren’t forgiven, you were just humiliated. Then he was satisfied. There wasn’t any charity in his heart, only meanness.”