"But, Ms. McKenna," he said, his voice becoming no more than a whine, "I need this job."
"You should have thought of that earlier," she said, whipping her checkbook out of her pocket. She wrote out a check and ripped it from the book, pressing it into Stanley's hand. "This is the pay I owe you for last week."
"You mean I don't even get two weeks' notice?" asked Stanley in outraged incredulity, planting his feet firmly on the boards of the porch. His chest heaved and his lower lip jutted out in rage.
"No," Sage told him.
"I knew I never should of worked for a woman," he said furiously, and then he broke into a string of invective that would have burned the ears of the most hardened sailor.
"Good-bye, Stanley," said Sage in the middle of it, and she went inside and closed the kitchen door, muttering to herself, "Good riddance."
"I'll get even," he called after her, shaking his fist, which still held her rumpled check in it, but she paid no attention. She knew she'd be better off without Stanley Garth.
* * *
That afternoon, Sage and Adam again drove to the beach house so that Sage could finish her work on the water-damaged ceiling, but they left Joy at home. No questions were asked; it was not thought unusual by anyone in her family for Sage to go alone to complete her work at the Sheedys' beach house. Whether anyone knew that Adam went with her, Sage didn't know. Or care.
This time they spent the night.
Sage felt overwhelmingly self-conscious as they climbed the staircase arm in arm to the master bedroom.
It had been so long since she'd gone through the going-to-bed ritual with anyone; did he want to use the bathroom first, or should she? Would he take off his clothes all at once? Should she put on the nightgown she'd brought? Or not put it on? What would he like her to do? She hesitated in the doorway, stiff and unsure of herself and of him.
But Adam, with his sense of timing and his thoughtfulness, made it all right. Never had she met a man who seemed to know what to do and when to do it like Adam Hracek did. He simply turned to her with an expression of reassuring anticipation and swept her into his arms, so that their coming together was utterly spontaneous, and it felt right and good and comfortable.
And Adam marveled, too, at the incredible ease of being with her, at the way she settled into his arms with a sigh as though she belonged there, at the harmony of two rapidly moving toward one and the process being so natural, so unmechanical.
Questions about the bathroom and her nightgown became moot as they tumbled in slow motion onto the bed where the sweet touching began again and again until finally Sage lay with her head on the soft part of his belly and Adam lay with his head on the inside part of her thigh, exhausted and yet revitalized.
Sage slept, her shallow breaths ruffling the hair on his stomach. She looked so innocent and so lovely lying there, her cheek pressed against his warm flesh. Adam ached inside with his unvoiced thoughts. He had told her she was beautiful, had moaned at the height of his intimacy with her, had longed to speak of all the hot, bright things rushing through his mind as she unexpectedly, through the utter generosity of her eager lovemaking, sent him flying into another dimension where all his old values crumbled away. But to tell her would change things. He was afraid to change things.
Especially himself. He'd always been the way he was. He'd never seen any reason to settle down. He still didn't, not really. But the thought of leaving Sage—ever—caused him excruciating pain in the region of his heart. Just the thought of it.
He wound his fingers in her soft curls, wanting desperately to be joined to her, to be part of her, all night in some way. She stirred slightly and pleasurably at his touch and he closed his eyes in contentment, feeling that he had never known the meaning of that word before. He fell asleep with his fingers still entwined in her hair, his hand shaped to the contour of her head.
The lusty chirping of birds in the eaves outside the window woke them in the morning. Sage didn't know what kind of birds they were; perhaps they were on their way south for the winter. She lay quietly for a while in the golden light of early morning as it filtered through the draperies. Her head was on the pillow, although she didn't recall putting it there. Adam lay on his side beside her, his chest rising and falling as he breathed, and their legs were wound together beneath the sheet. She didn't know if he was awake or asleep until, quite deliberately, he wiggled his toes, once, twice, against hers.
She turned on her side and gazed at him until he opened one eye and looked at her. His hair was endearingly mussed over his forehead and his ample eyebrows were unruly. His mustache turned downward like the one on the little ceramic figure of a Chinese mandarin in Irma and Ralph's bedroom. She reached over and brushed it gently upward with her fingertips until it curved up again the way it was supposed to. He caught her fingers in his hand and pressed them to his lips. She felt the dart of his tongue against her pinkie before he let her go.
I love you, she thought. It would have seemed so natural to say it. She felt the stinging in her nose that meant tears were imminent. She closed her eyes in hopes of stemming their flow. And she didn't tell him.
To tell him would be to destroy what they had together.
They didn't go home until after dark that night. That was Sunday.
They made no plans for Monday. She invited Adam to dinner, but he declined.
"I have work to do," he said. "The plant will be quiet and deserted, and I'll have the office area to myself. It'll be a good chance for me to work on a statistical analysis that I'm doing."
And it would give him a chance to distance himself from Sage. He was becoming obsessed with her. He only realized how helplessly obsessed he was when he went to the Wilpacko plant on Monday and was so overcome with longing for her that he couldn't work. He wanted her face to be in his field of vision, her hand to be reaching out for his, her eyes to be laughing up at him. But she didn't belong in his life permanently.
He massaged his temples, the numbers on the statistical report blurring in front of him. I can't give in to these feelings, he thought to himself, and an awful sadness washed over him. He did no more work that day. Instead he went home, fixed himself a stiff drink and sat looking out over the lake, a ribbon of silver spread out toward the opposite shore, brooding until the sinking sun stained the water amber. Which was, and it didn't help any, the color of Sage.
At home, Sage received a call after supper on Sunday night from Fred Peterson. The wind had torn one of the double doors off their shed, and he'd like Sage to repair it before the wind caught the other door and tore it off, too. She went to look at the shed and agreed with Fred that the door repair could wait until morning. The hinge on the broken door was hopelessly bent.
She had some hinges like it, but all of them were at Kalmia Hill. She decided to stop by on her way home and pick up the hinges so that she could drop by the Petersons' first thing in the morning to fix their door. Adam, after all, would not be at Kalmia Hill tonight but at the Wilpacko plant, and Vito and Luigi were still out of town, so she wasn't worried about disturbing anyone.
Sage used her own key to admit herself to the house, which was dark except for a small lamp left burning in the foyer, perfect for lighting her way in.
She was just closing the door behind her when she heard the strains of a violin.
A violin? At Kalmia Hill? Intrigued, she walked softly across the gleaming parquet floor toward the stairs. A faint light emanated from one of the rooms upstairs, and so did the haunting melody of a deep and dark refrain that she could only identify as something vaguely Slavic and melancholy.
Could it be Adam playing? It must be Adam. There could be no one else here.
Utterly fascinated and caught up in the flaming passion of the mysterious melody, she walked slowly up the stairs, her eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom of the stairway. The melody went on, insistently drawing her to it like a magnet. She paused at the top of the stairs, reluctant to go into Adam's bedroom.
&n
bsp; The dim light in the room must have been behind him, for it cast shadows on the wall beside her, dusky, elongated shadows like ghosts. And the melody went on, drawing her into it, wrapping her in its wild urgency, gripping her in its magical spell. She held her breath and moved to the doorway.
Adam played thé violin as though it had been invented for him, letting its voice express the emotion he felt but seldom revealed. His dark head bent over the glowing wood of the instrument, and his long fingers glided along the strings, making them throb and pulse with a song Sage was sure she had never heard before. The bow in his hand dipped and sang his own private yearnings and urgings, and as he played he was totally oblivious to Sage's presence.
She didn't know how long she stood there. She only knew that when Adam played she felt the song in her soul and the blood singing through her veins along with the music. He played on, the song seeming to have no end, as perhaps it had no beginning.
Sage could have stood quietly all night, watching and listening. But suddenly Adam stopped playing, lowered the violin, dropped the bow on the floor with a clatter, and stared straight into her eyes, ebony on amber.
"You!" he said. It was she that he had been trying to exorcise with the help of the music, and there she was standing in the doorway, her hands folded in front of her like a demure schoolgirl and looking so beautiful that she tore at his heart.
"I didn't know you played," she said.
"I don't usually," he snapped, immediately regretting his sharp tone. He didn't like it that she had seen and heard him.
"You have a great deal of talent."
"Come in," he said, going to her and pulling her into the room. He gazed at her for a long moment, and she suddenly wished she had simply taken the hinges and left without letting him know she was there. She had caught him in an uncharacteristically bad mood.
But then he kissed her, angling his head to hers and letting his lips linger on her open mouth, so that she was glad, glad, that she hadn't left.
He released her lips suddenly and went to put the violin in its case on his bed, gently lowering the instrument into the plush interior and picking up the bow from where it had fallen. The small lamp on the dresser behind him gave no more light than a single candle. It cast the beige moiré draperies and silk wallpaper into shadows.
"Won't you play some more?" Sage asked impulsively. "That song was so beautiful. I don't think I've ever heard it before."
"You probably haven't," he agreed. His eyes flashed across her face and then away.
"What was the name of it?"
"I doubt that it has a name," said Adam, clicking the violin case closed.
She couldn't understand why he acted ashamed of his ability as a musician. "Will you play for Joy sometime?" she asked him. "She loves music."
Adam shot her an enigmatic look and swung the case to the floor. Then he sat on the bed and leaned on the bank of pillows at its head. "I don't know. I might. Come here."
She looked down at him. Adam seethed with energy. It was the energy of his playing that had impressed her, not only his skill. Now that his playing had ceased, that energy seemed imprisoned inside him yearning to break free. She held out her hand, and he drew her toward him. She sat beside him on the bed and he pulled her down until her head was on his shoulder.
"I wish I hadn't interrupted your playing," she said softly.
He stared at the ceiling. "It's not important," he said. "I didn't want to play anymore."
"I thought you were at the plant," she said. Her hand rested on his chest, cupped lightly below the hollow of his throat.
He sighed, a tormented sigh. "I was. I didn't get as much work done as I thought I could."
"Why? Was someone else there?"
"Yes. You."
Sage didn't understand his meaning right away. "But I was—" she began in puzzlement. And then she understood.
He turned to her with his craving for her raw in his eyes. There was a sharp intake of breath from her, and her heartbeat accelerated so that he could feel it against the cage of her ribs beneath his fingers. And she knew that his need was her own need, too, because she loved him. The heat from his body coursed at her in waves, arousing her before he even did anything. She closed her eyes and lifted her lips and let him do whatever he wanted to do.
This time they mated. It was Adam's energy unrestrained that made it a mating, which was somehow less and somehow more than lovemaking. Whatever it was, he couldn't get enough of her: her scent, her taste, her giving. It was wild and dazzling and spirited, but still good. When it was over for both of them, he fell away from her in total exhaustion, thinking that even this demented taking of her had neither slaked his desire for her nor made him want anything less of her than all. This knowledge left him confused, a state in which he seldom found himself. And worst of all, he didn't trust his feelings or his instincts anymore.
She reached over and touched him tentatively. He made no response, just lay staring at the ceiling, feeling sad about something and not knowing quite what. Loss. It was a feeling of loss. All the things he had lost—his real parents, Tony Hracek, his ex-wife and his son. And Sage. Oh, yes. He would lose her, too. Eventually.
She looked over at him and saw the moisture gathering in the corner of his eye. No, she thought. This is not happening. I don't know why it's happening.
He didn't think she'd notice if he reached up and brushed the tear away, but she was looking at him, and he didn't know until it was too late. The pupils of her eyes shone large and dark and bottomless, and behind them was understanding, caring and more.
"Adam," she said, and then she made of her arms a refuge and pressed her naked body to his and held him tight, the way no one had since he could remember. He shuddered in her embrace, but she held on anyway, remembering how he had held her when she thought Gary was going to take Joy. Her face was wet with his tears, and she closed her eyes tight against his pain, whatever it was.
She held him for a long time. He said nothing. She said nothing. But a lot passed between them in the silence.
Later, much later, Adam pulled away from her and threw his arm over his eyes. He made room for her close to him and she fitted into the space he made and arranged the rumpled bedspread over them.
She knew not to ask what was wrong. He was grateful for that. But he would tell her. He wanted to tell her.
Slowly he began to talk, and his accent reappeared, the faint foreignness about his speech that she had noticed once before when he'd spoken about his childhood.
"I learned to play the violin when I was very small. Perhaps about four. I had a little violin that my father bought me. I loved that instrument. Then I graduated to a bigger violin, and soon I could play very well. So well that I played for money."
He drew a deep, ragged breath, waiting for her reaction. There was none, only watchful silence.
"I played for money on street corners, Sage. My mother would dress me up in my best clothes—rags, they were—and send me out with my father, who could gather a crowd with his voice that was like a bassoon. And the people in the cities would come and he'd pass his hat, and they'd throw in their quarters and dimes. Sometimes the police would get angry and we'd have to leave that city, and it was on to the next one. We never stayed in one place longer than six months."
He looked down at her. He shook his head, remembering. "I wanted to go to school, but until I went to the charity home, I never did. I learned to read from billboards we passed on the highways. I learned to count when I emptied the money from Papa's hat."
"Adam!" exclaimed Sage softly.
"We were gypsies, Sage. Romani. Outcasts wherever we went. You called me a gypsy once. Well, you were right." His voice was so bitter; she had never heard him use that tone.
"And what about the school authorities? They didn't talk to your parents? It's illegal to keep a child out of school."
Adam tightened his lips and shook his head. "No one wants gypsies in his town.'Move on, move on,' that was all w
e heard. It was fitting. My mother ran a fortune-telling scam in storefronts. People would find out it was a scam and there'd be trouble. Or my father would beat my mother and their fights would get us thrown out of the ratty apartments where we lived. But I always had my music for escape. My violin. I had dreams of becoming a concert violinist one day. Futile dreams—what hope was there for me?"
"When you were adopted—couldn't you have studied music then, wherever you wanted? Tony Hracek had the money to pay for it."
"My parents deserted me. I've told you that. They left me because I'd grown too tall. I was no longer a cute curly-headed boy who could charm the crowd with his violin. I had high-minded ideas about going to school and studying music. They didn't like that. Or me, anymore. So they left town, and they took my violin. After that I didn't want to play. Didn't have the heart for it. And when Tony adopted me, I wanted to get as far away from the gypsy way of life as possible because finally I saw a chance to rid myself of the stigma. No Romani that I knew had ever studied to be an engineer. I wanted stability and the old-fashioned work ethic to be part of my life. I was determined to become a contributing member of society, unlike my parents. So I did. I had the benefit of good boarding schools, and I was smart. I qualified to go to a good college. I never played the violin again until I was an adult. And you are the first person ever to see or hear me play."
"And your parents?"
Adam swallowed painfully. Why was he telling her all this, revealing his private self? He'd hardly told a soul. His ex-wife, Marcia, never had known all of it.
"My parents," he said in anguish, "sold me. To Tony Hracek. I found the papers when I cleaned out his personal effects after he died. He traced them when he wanted to adopt me, and they sold me for two thousand dollars."
What could she say? Adam's story of personal horror was almost too much for her to comprehend. A whole way of life that was different, parents that she could never, ever understand. To sell a child—how could anyone do a thing like that?
Handyman Special Page 14
