by Joan Hohl
Marsh’s parents’ home loomed large and imposing, the many brightly lit windows a beacon in the winter-night darkness. From the moment she stepped inside the door Helen could feel the wealth and good taste of its owners surround her. The family, the very correct butler informed Marsh, were in the small rear sitting room. Following his ramrod-straight back across the wide hall, Helen chanced a glance at Marsh and received a slow, exaggerated wink in return.
The small rear sitting room was not really at the rear and not small at all, and very, very elegant. Helen judged that the furniture, paintings, and exquisite decorations in the room had probably cost more than she could earn if she worked flat out until she was ninety. A room definitely not for small children, she thought, wondering if Marsh and his sister had been barred from it while they were growing up.
Marsh’s mother, a tall, attractive woman in her mid-fifties, came across the room to greet them, her head high, rich auburn hair gleaming in the room’s soft light.
“Good evening, Dr. Cassidy.” Kathleen Kirk’s voice was deep and cultured, and held a note of real welcoming warmth that was reassuring. “I’m so pleased you were free to join us this evening.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” Helen replied softly, studying the older woman as she placed her hand in the one outstretched to her. Although she was tall, she was delicately formed and the fine skin covering her face still held a faint, youthful glow despite the fine lines around her dark blue eyes.
During the brief exchange two men had come to stand behind Mrs. Kirk, and as she released Helen’s hand she stepped to the side, said pleasantly, “My husband, George,” nodding to a sandy-haired, distinguished-looking man not much taller than herself.
Helen took his hand, searching in vain for a resemblance to Marsh, as she murmured, “Mr. Kirk.” Then she turned her head and caught her breath at Mrs. Kirk’s, “And my father, Cullen Hannlon.”
The resemblance here was uncanny. Helen knew that Marsh’s grandfather had to be in his mid-seventies, yet nothing about him betrayed that fact. As tall as Marsh, his shoulders almost as broad, Cullen Hannlon stood straight, his large frame unbowed by time. He fit Marsh’s name for him perfectly, for he was truly a bear of a man. The light blue eyes that held hers were the exact shade of his grandson’s and they glowed with the same intent sharpness, and Helen would have bet her eyeteeth that his luxuriant shock of white hair had, in years past, been the same not-quite red as Marsh’s.
Her hand was grasped, not taken, by his large, hard-fingered, brown one, which reminded Helen of tough old leather. His entire appearance contrasted oddly with his deep, gentle voice.
“Well, Helen.” No title from this quarter, Helen thought with amusement. “We finally meet. Of course,” he teased, squeezing her hand. “Now that I see you I can understand why Marsh wanted to keep you to himself. You, my dear, are an extraordinarily beautiful woman.”
Before Helen could find words to reply to this unbelievable old man, she heard Marsh laugh softly behind her and say sardonically, “You’re wasting your time and breath, Cullen. Helen is immune to flattery.”
Cullen favored Helen with a secret smile before turning suddenly fierce blue eyes on his grandson. “If you really believe that, son, you are a fool. And I know you are anything but that. No woman is immune to flattery, as Indeed no man is; if it’s the right kind of flattery.”
Sauntering beside her as his mother ushered them into the room, Marsh’s laughter deepened and he whispered close to her ear, “Imagine what he must have been like when he was young.”
I don’t have to imagine anything, Helen thought wryly. All I have to do is turn my head and look at you. The thought that Marsh would very likely be exactly the same as Cullen when he grew old was a strangely exciting one, and Helen quickly squashed it by thinking, I won’t be there to see it. Forcing her mind away from the oddly bereft sensation her thoughts created, Helen turned her attention to what Mrs. Kirk was saying.
“You know my daughter, Kristeen, and her husband, Mike, of course.”
Helen smiled at the young couple, seating herself on the delicately upholstered chair beside the matching settee they shared. “Hello, Kristeen, how are you? Mr. Darren. And how is your daughter?”
“She’s perfect, Doctor, thank you,” Kristeen smiled shyly. “And I feel wonderful. I wouldn’t dare feel any other way after the amount of fussing this family of mine has done over me.”
“Fussing, hell!” Cullen snorted impatiently. “This family has lost one woman through childbirth. I don’t want to live through that again, so behave yourself, young woman, and let us care for you.”
Although a smile played at her soft mouth, Kristeen answered demurely, “Yes, Grandfather.”
“Father, please,” Kathleen murmured softly, silencingly.
On his first statement Helen’s eyes, full of questions, had swung to Cullen’s, and now, although he grasped his daughter’s shoulder gently, he answered the question. “I lost my wife three weeks after Kathleen was born.” His voice was steady, yet Helen could sense the wealth of sorrow he still felt from his loss. “Megan had had a hard delivery and she was very weak. I was just getting started in the construction business and couldn’t afford a full-time nurse.”
His eyes darkened with pain, and Helen said urgently, “Mr. Hannlon, please don’t. This isn’t necessary.” Her eyes flew to Marsh with a silent plea for help, but he didn’t see her. His eyes were fastened on his grandfather, and incredibly Cullen’s pain was reflected in them.
“She was so delighted with our daughter, she found pleasure in caring for her, even though it drained the little strength she had.” He went on in that same quiet tone. “She was eighteen, I was twenty-one. Twenty-one,” he repeated softly, then his eyes sharpened on Helen’s. “Do you have any idea, I wonder, what losing his soul-mate can do to a man?”
Helen felt trapped, pinned by those intense blue eyes, and she had the unreal, weird sensation that he was trying to tell her something important. Mentally shrugging off the feeling as compassion for his still obviously deep grief, Helen searched for suitable words.
“I—I don’t know, sir. I’ve never lost a patient or had to bring that kind of news to a husband. I can’t even imagine—”
Marsh’s soft voice saved Helen from floundering further, but in so doing he confused her even more, for there was a definite warning in his tone.
“Enough said, Cullen.”
The old man’s eyes shot a challenge at his grandson, one Marsh’s very stance conveyed he was ready to meet. For several seconds the room seemed electrically charged and Helen could see her own confusion mirrored on the faces of the others as matching pairs of blue eyes silently dueled. Mr. Kirk relieved the tension with a dry gibe, addressed to Helen, but aimed at his son.
“May I get you an aperitif, Helen? You may need some alcoholic fortitude, as your escort seems to be spoiling for an argument.”
“I’ll get it.” Marsh shot a grin at his father and a broad wink at his grandfather. “But let me assure you, she does not need it I’ve tried arguing with Helen. I invariably lose.”
“Good for Helen.” Kathleen Kirk’s smile stole the sting from her barb. “You are much too sure of yourself.”
Later Helen was to wonder why she had hesitated over Marsh’s parents’ invitation. She had a delightful time. Kristeen and Mike were a lively couple, full of interesting and funny stories of times spent with their wide assortment of friends. Marsh periodically dropped dry, witty comments into their narrative as they shared some of their friends. Helen was surprised to find that Mr. and Mrs. Kirk were very well acquainted with several of her friends and colleagues, and that paved the way for further easy conversation.
But for Helen the most enjoyable part of the evening came from watching, in fascinated amusement the thrust and parry between Cullen Hannlon and George Kirk. The play swung back and forth, George Kirk’s wry, caustic lunges effortlessly deflected by Cullen’s dry, acerbic ripostes. Helen had never
witnessed anything quite like it before in her life.
Glancing at Marsh, Helen saw her own amusement mirrored in his eyes. That he got a kick out of watching the two men was obvious. Equally obvious was the deep love and respect he had for them. Knowing this warmed her, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why. Why should it matter to her one way or the other, she asked herself, if he was capable of feeling abiding love, loyalty, respect?
When he took her home, Marsh kept to his promise not to pressure her. With a murmured, “I’ll call you,” he kissed her gently and left her staring after him in uncertain amazement.
It was toward the end of the following week that Helen first felt an uncomfortable twinge about Marsh’s behavior. The fact that she couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was about his attitude made her uneasy. He was considerate and attentive, without actually dancing attendance on her, and yet there was something. It nagged her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.
January slipped into February and their relationship seemed at an impasse. Helen was seeing Marsh on an average of four nights a week, and surprisingly he did not call her on the nights she didn’t see him. More surprising still was that he was adhering completely to his no-pressure promise. Was he losing interest? It was a question Helen asked herself more and more frequently as the days went by.
On the surface Marsh seemed as determined as before, at times more so. On the evening of Valentine’s Day Kristeen and Mike were having a small get-together of friends, the first since their baby’s birth, and they had asked Helen and Marsh to join them.
“I don’t think so,” Helen hedged when Marsh relayed Kris’s invitation.
“Why not?” he asked, surprised. “I thought you liked Kris and Mike,”
“I do,” Helen replied promptly, then hesitated. She couldn’t very well tell him she thought it unadvisable to get too involved with his family and friends, so she offered, lamely, “But it will be young married couples, won’t it? I just don’t think I’d fit in.”
“Not fit in?” he exclaimed. “Helen, that’s ridiculous. Of course you’d fit in. It will do you good to be around young women who are not your patients. Besides which”—he grinned— “I already told them we’d come.”
He takes too much on himself, Helen fumed in frustration. I really ought to put him back in his place. She didn’t at once, and then the moment was gone as he went on blandly to tell her who would be there. Not a large group, he informed her. Just a few close friends he shared with Kris and Mike.
On the fourteenth Marsh arrived at the apartment with a large elaborately decorated heart-shaped box of chocolates and a card, almost as large, that was covered with cupids and flowers and gushy sentiment. Reading the card, Helen frowned, unable to believe he really went in for that sort of mush, then, glancing up, she smiled ruefully at the devil gleam in his eye,
“There are times I’m convinced you are really quite mad, Marsh,” she said, her tone deliberately crushing. It didn’t work. He laughed at her, taunted, “I am quite mad. For you. I couldn’t resist the urge to watch your face as you read it.” He paused before chiding, nodding at the candy, “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece?”
“You’re impossible,” Helen murmured, tugging at the end of the large bow on the ribbon that surrounded the box. Glancing up to smile at him, she felt her heartbeats quicken, her mouth go dry. The gleam had disappeared and there was a waiting stillness about him that warned her. Lifting the heart-shaped lid carefully, she bit her lip, then sat down slowly. At the V of the heart several pieces of the candy had been removed and in their place was nestled a small jeweler’s box.
For a moment, thinking the box contained a ring, pure panic gripped her. Then reason reasserted itself as she realized the box was larger, flatter than a ring box. With trembling fingers she removed the box, lifted the lid, a small gasp whispering through her lips. In the glow from the lamp beside her chair the gold inside the box seemed to glitter and wink at her. Very carefully she extracted the intricately worked and, at the price of gold, obviously expensive chains, one for the neck and a smaller one for the wrist.
Handling the delicate pieces gently, Helen looked up at the silently waiting man in front of her, her eyes unknowingly telegraphing her words.
“Marsh, they’re beautiful, but I—”
“Don’t say it, Helen,” Marsh warned softly. He lifted the candy box from her lap and slid it onto the end table. “Stand up and I’ll fasten them on for you.”
Standing on legs that felt none too steady, Helen watched as he clasped the small chain on her wrist. The chain was loose and slid partway down the back of her hand.
“I didn’t realize your wrist was so slender,” he said softly. “Should I have it made smaller for you?”
A sudden, unreasonable feeling of possessiveness gripped her, and not even knowing why, she didn’t want to remove the chain. “No!” Too hasty, she chided herself, tempering it with a small laugh. “I think I like it loose like that”
“Yes,” Marsh murmured, studying the effect of the gold against her skin. “Something sexy about it.” His eyes lifted to hers and what they told her sent her pulses racing.
Without waiting to see if she’d reply, he moved around her to fasten the neck chain. He brushed her hair to one side, and Helen felt a chill at the touch of his fingers on the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. The chain was fastened, then his hands encircled her throat.
‘They look like fine slave chains,” he breathed softly. “Do they make you my slave, Helen?”
The chill turned into a strong shiver that zigzagged the length of her spine, down the back of her legs.
“Marsh . . , oh, Marsh, stop.”
It was a strangled protest against his mouth, moving along the side of her neck; his hands, moving down the silky material of her blouse, over the firm mounds of her breasts.
“How long are you going to hold out, Helen?” his breath whispered against her skin. Then she was turned around into his arms, his hands holding her tightly to the hard length of his body. “How long should the slave be allowed to torture her master?” His hands fastened on her hips, drawing her still closer, making her all too aware of his meaning.
Helen gasped at the word “master,” but her retort was lost inside his mouth. His kiss was a hungry, urgent demand, and Helen’s hands, which had grasped his wrists to pull his hands away from her hips, slid up his arms to his shoulders and clung. He hadn’t kissed her like this in weeks, and until that moment Helen hadn’t fully realized how much she’d wanted him to. The realization was a sobering one. Giving a firm push against his shoulders, she stepped back away from him.
“Marsh, stop it,” she cried shakily. “If you think my accepting these gives you the right to—” She paused, fingers fumbling at the clasp on the wrist chain. “You can take it back.”
“Leave it,” Marsh snapped, his large hand covering her fingers, stilling their trembling. ‘There are no strings on it, or anything else I may give you. Not even on myself.” He drew a harsh breath, then added more softly, “You know what I want, Helen. I made my feelings clear at the beginning. But you can set the rules, you make the conditions. Only, for God’s sake, do it soon. Don’t let me hang indefinitely.”
Helen felt shaken and confused. Oh, yes, she thought wildly, she knew what he wanted. He wanted a bed partner, the triumph of subduing the cool, older lady doctor. Were there rules and conditions to that kind of relationship? If there were, Helen was positive that, for all his assurances to the contrary, he fully intended to set them.
He waited several minutes, and when she didn’t speak or respond in anyway, he spun away, walked to the closet, yanked her coat from the hanger, and snapped, “Let’s get out of here. Kris and Mike are probably wondering where we are.”
Still without speaking, Helen slipped into the coat, buttoned up with a calmness she was far from feeling inside. He was angry. Really angry. His eyes held a chilling coldness he’d never turned on her b
efore. His control seemed to crack when she returned his stare with a forced coolness of her own.
“You’re enjoying every minute of this, aren’t you?” he ground through clenched teeth.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not,” he taunted silkily. “Have your fun while you can, love, because your line’s about played out.”
Marsh maintained a cool, withdrawn silence during the entire twenty-five-minute drive to his sister’s home. Helen’s nerves, already frayed when they left the apartment, stretched and grew more taut as each silent second followed another. She was twisting the narrow chain around her wrist, on the verge of telling him to turn the car around and take her home, when he pulled up and parked along the curb in front of a row of fairly new, modern town houses. There were other cars parked along the curb and two, bumper to bumper, in the narrow driveway that led to a garage adjacent to the house.
When Marsh walked through the doorway of his sister’s house, he left outside the cold, angry man he’d been for over a half hour. A slight widening of her eyes was her only outward reaction to his sudden change, but he saw it and shook his head once sharply at her before turning a smiling face to the people gathered inside the long living room.
Besides Kris and Mike there were four other couples in the room. Names were tossed at her casually, with an aside from Marsh not to worry, he’d sort them out for her later, but although the surnames were lost, she caught and held on to the first names. There were Bob and Donna, and Charles and Irene, all the same age as Kris and Mike. Then there were Ray and Betty, and Grant and Mary Ellen, a few years older than the others, more Marsh’s age.
There were no awkward moments. The introductions dispensed with, Helen was drawn into the conversation so effortlessly, it had her wondering if the whole thing had been rehearsed. She would reject the idea a short time later.
