“Ahh,” he said with considerable relish, “if only the Pierce & Rothchilde board could see me now.”
His hair was wild and dark, and he had plaster dust in his cuticles, a couple of scraped knuckles. He’d spent the day, she remembered, at the lodge with Cliff. She found it strange, yet curiously right, that two brothers from the East had ended up in Tyler, Wisconsin. One definitely to stay, the other probably not.
But she wouldn’t think about Byron’s leaving right now.
“Any calls to Rhode Island today?”
“Only from. Seems my pal Hank Murrow was a bit premature in gloating about his technothriller mega-contract. Now he wants us to buy some dreary tome he’s written.”
“It’s not good?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure it’s great.”
Nora made no pretense of understanding the publishing industry, or Byron Forrester’s attitude toward it. “What about his technothriller?”
“Who knows? It’s not what P & R does.” He pulled at the neckline of his skeleton suit. “God, I’m about to suffocate in this thing. It’s like being encased in a giant rubber band. How was the store today?”
“Busy.”
“Gearing up for the Christmas rush already?”
She nodded, unable—or at least damned unwilling—to take her eyes off him. She’d worn a navy wool gabardine coatdress with chunky silver jewelry to the store, distracted periodically all day by images of Byron slipping it off her when she got home. Now here he was in her bedroom.
“The party’s not for another three hours,” she said.
Naturally he read more meaning into her statement than she’d intended. “Oh?”
“I was just reminding you—”
“In case I didn’t want to run around in my glow-in-the-dark skeleton costume for the next three hours or in case I had other plans in mind?”
She snapped her mouth shut. “I just thought you might get hot.” Then she added, because he was determined to give her no rest, “In your skeleton suit.”
“It is a bit close. Here, give me a hand—there’s an invisible zipper in the back. Stand aside, though. When I peel this thing off it’ll snap back down to Ken doll-size.”
He did have a point.
He’d also neglected to tell her how little he had on underneath his costume. Not that there’d been much mystery.
“Are you blushing?” he asked, highly entertained.
“Men have no modesty.”
“Mustn’t generalize. Besides, there’s nothing here you haven’t seen…aha, so that’s it! You’re not the least embarrassed, Miss Nora. That’s pure lust I see in those beautiful gray eyes of yours.” He slid his arms around her and drew her close. “You are beautiful, you know.”
“No one’s ever told me—”
“That’s because they were afraid you’d clobber them if they did. You do have a temper.”
“Only with you.” He had her in such a tight embrace she could do nothing with her arms except slip them around him; he had a strong, smooth back. “You seem to bring out…not the worst in me, I think, but whatever it is I’m feeling, good, bad, or indifferent. I’m afraid I’m not very good at censoring myself when I’m around you.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” he asked seriously.
“It’s not like me— I’m usually more controlled. But yes, I think it’s good. I don’t hold anything back when I’m with you. I just can’t seem to be…well, circumspect.”
“I’m glad.”
“And you?”
He smiled. “What you see is what you get.”
She knew it was true. Even three years ago, when he’d neglected to tell her the whole truth of who he was and why he’d come to Tyler, he still had been his own person. Most of her negative feelings toward him for the past years had stemmed not from what he’d done or said, but from what he’d let her—deliberately or otherwise—believe about him, from her own suppositions, deductions, prejudices. He was more centered now, more balanced, but the irreverent sense of humor was still there, the sexiness, the energy, the optimism. He’d needed those three years on his own. So had she. But he was still the Byron she’d loved three years ago. And he’d loved her. She was sure of that now.
“I’m not holding back on you,” he said, without her prompting. His smile had faded, in its place an expression of warmth and gravity. “I’ve never known anyone like you. I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you. I doubt I ever will.”
She draped her arms over his hard, bare shoulders. She could feel her lips part, inviting him, but she didn’t wait for his response. Instead she tilted back her head and kissed him lightly on the chin. “The first time I saw you on the street outside Gates,” she said in a low voice, “I knew you’d change my life. It was just there, a certain knowledge. I didn’t know how or why or in what way, but I knew you were meant to be standing out there on that sidewalk while I was doing that window. And I don’t even believe in fate.”
“I felt the same way.”
She nodded. “I believe you.”
“Nora—”
“Byron, I want you to know that I do trust you. I’m not saying I know what’s going to happen to us. I don’t know where we’ll go from here. But I do know that the past—what I used to think about you—what I needed to think…” She paused, wishing she could be more articulate, wishing she could explain how certain and yet mixed-up she felt. “I just believe you now.”
His arms tightened around her, and he seemed unable to speak. Their mouths were very close. She let her tongue flick against the edges of his teeth, into his mouth.
And he responded, in action if not in words. Lifting her, he carried her to the bed. Halfway there her shoes fell off. He kissed her deeply, his tongue plunging far into her mouth, its sensual rhythm a promise of what was to come, a promise of much more than sex. Her dress was hiked up to midthigh. When he laid her on the bed, it hiked up to her waist.
Finally, he managed to whisper her name. It was enough.
She assumed he’d start by removing her dress, or stand back so that she could, but he didn’t. Already his eyes were dusky with passion. He peeled off her panty hose, purposefully taking her underpants with them this time. The air in the bedroom was cool on her overheated skin. She didn’t object.
Starting at her ankles, he slid his hands, alternating between his fingertips and palms, up the insides of her legs. She ached with anticipation. A small moan escaped when he came to her inner thighs, betraying her longing. He paused just for a moment. She was almost overwhelmed with a need that was sensual, earthy, so very real.
He touched his fingers to where she was dark and moist. She arched for him, cried out for him not to stop, but he drew back, all the way to her ankles again, were he followed the same trail with his tongue, until he was back to where she was wet and dark and aching, and this time he stayed. In seconds she was a volcano erupting, spilling out molten lava, and at some point he dispensed with his scrap of underpants, entering her with a heat that matched her own.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I think I always have.”
And she believed him.
Finally, when they became aware of the world again, Nora noticed the clock. “My party!”
They had to scramble. Together they lined up the jack-o’-lanterns they’d made on the front porch and got them lit, put the spooky music on the stereo, tucked ghosts and goblins and shrunken heads here and there, filled a tub with water for apple-bobbing, loaded bowls with mountains of treats. At last Byron sauntered off to put on his skeleton costume, and she retreated to her bedroom, where she quickly smoothed out her bed and put on her layers of makeup, her jewelry and the filmy, gaudy fabric.
“Good God!” Byron said, staring at her when she joined him in the living room. “How many years have you been dressing like that?”
“It’s the same costume I always wear. My rendition of a gypsy—”
“Well, if there’s a single person left in Tyler who still bel
ieves your Victorian virgin act after seeing you in this getup, I’ll swear you’re as pure as the virgin snow myself.”
“What? I’m not a gypsy.” She laughed, loving how he teased her—how he refused to take her too seriously. “It’s sort of a sexy costume, I realize, especially for me, but—”
“Sort of?”
If the proverbial doorbell hadn’t rung, in another minute there’d have been a gypsy and a glow-in-the-dark skeleton making love on the living room floor.
By six-thirty, Nora’s house was packed. People who didn’t ordinarily come to her annual Halloween party took advantage of her open invitation and showed up. She figured most of the newcomers had stopped in to get a glimpse—quite literally—of the skeleton in her closet. Byron seemed to enjoy popping out of the entry closet, scaring the daylights out of little kids. Then, of course, charming them.
People came and went; others lingered. Nora tried introducing Byron as her houseguest, who’d be staying through Cliff and Liza’s wedding on Saturday, but he refused to say he was anything but a skeleton in her closet. It made for many widened eyes.
“You always have this many people at this thing?” he asked, pulling her aside.
“Not half. Everyone wants to see what you look like. It’s not easy to tell with the face paint. The clingy costume doesn’t leave much of the rest of you to the imagination.”
He grunted. “I should have dressed as a pirate and kidnapped you, given them all something to talk about.”
“They have plenty to talk about as it is.”
His eyes turned serious. “Do you care?”
She smiled. “If talk’s the only punishment, it’s well worth the crimes I’ve committed.”
“And to think,” he said, laughing, “we’ve only just begun our crime spree.”
Later, when the little kids had gone home, Nora put on the cassette of Night on Bald Mountain and broke out the hot mulled cider and the pumpkin rolls—no strings or seeds included—she’d made ahead and frozen. They were filled with layers of cream and nuts, then sprinkled with sifted powdered sugar. They’d been Aunt Ellie’s favorite. Nora also had her biggest pottery bowl brimming with warm cinnamon applesauce.
Into this quieter, homey part of her Halloween festivities, Liza Baron walked, pale and scared, wearing a huge, patched denim jacket that had to be Cliff’s. Someone started to tease her about not wearing a costume. But she didn’t smile in her vivacious way, and her big eyes wouldn’t focus. Nora quickly set down her tray of mugs filled with steaming cider.
But Byron was already on his glow-in-the-dark feet, grabbing his future sister-in-law as she stumbled into the music room. “Liza, what’s wrong?”
She looked at him, the tears spilling down her white cheeks. “It’s Cliff.” She almost collapsed, but Byron was there. “He’s gone.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BYRON TOOK the next flight East.
He’d told Liza—and Nora—that he thought he knew where his brother was headed.
When his plane touched down at Logan Airport in Boston, he got his car out of long-term parking and drove to Providence, arriving very late. It seemed he’d been gone for years, yet it had been less than a week. He called Nora from the kitchen phone in the Pierce house on Benefit Street, half-expecing his grandfather to sneak around the corner and whack him with his cane for slouching. Thorton Pierce had been a brilliant publisher and a formidable grandfather. He had never taken—or, to be fair, tried to take—Richard Forrester’s place. He’d made no secret of his mystification over his son-in-law’s choice of a military career, particularly when there was a war on.
Nora picked up on the first ring.
“Any word from Cliff?” Bryon asked, just in case.
“None.”
“I didn’t expect there would be. Is Liza with you?”
“Yes. Alyssa talked her out of staying at the lodge alone, especially…well, you know.”
The mysterious dead body discovered on the premises. It had to give anyone, even the irrepressible Liza Baron, pause. Byron nodded grimly, aware of his own solitude in the elegant town house. It was well after midnight, but Nora sounded fresh and alert, one of Tyler, Wisconsin’s rock-solid citizens, a responsible woman who could be counted on in an emergency. In addition to wanting to make love to her night and day, Byron did also admire her.
“There’s nothing more I can do tonight,” he told her.
“I know,” she said, more for his sake, he felt, than for hers. “Cliff’s a grown man. It’s not as if he’s likely to be in any danger.”
Liza, in fact, had given no indication whatever that Cliff had flipped out. Despite the strain he’d seen in his brother earlier in the day, Byron was inclined to believe her assessment. But what Liza hadn’t articulated—and what he knew she most feared—was that Cliff Forrester had up and left her the same way, for the same reasons, that he had left Rhode Island and his mother and brother so many years before. Liza and I are forever. That doesn’t mean I won’t break her heart. Cliff’s words of less than twenty-four hours ago.
But Byron thought he knew, finally, something that Cliff, even after his years of isolation, was only beginning to figure out. His stress and need and fears in these days before his marriage to the woman he loved weren’t about cold feet. They weren’t about his reluctance to face crowds or his fear of flipping out and hurting someone, even Liza.
No, Byron thought, looking in his refrigerator for something to eat. He found a shriveled apple and a beer. He chose the beer. It hissed when he unscrewed the cap.
Cliff’s stress and need and fears were about Colonel Richard Forrester of the United States Air Force. They were about a man who’d died in captivity a long, long way from home and about the son who’d tried—and almost died—to save him. Ultimately, they were about confronting who Clifton Pierce Forrester had been, as a brother and a son, as a boy and a young man. They were about all of those things, Byron knew, because he was there himelf, coming to terms, at last, with the past. Accepting what was.
He sipped his beer, but it didn’t taste right, and he broke out the last of his grandfather’s private stock of brandy and poured himself a glass. He went up to the top floor of the grand, historic house, where he had his studio. Or, more accurately, what was supposed to be his studio. Since his return to Pierce & Rothchilde, he’d had precious little time for photography or anything else.
Aunt Ellie, he thought for no particular reason, would have loved the sweeping staircases, the eclectic furnishings that reflected the best in American craftsmanship, from the 1790s when the Pierces were shipbuilders, to the 1990s when they were publishers. Byron didn’t know what they’d be in the year 2000.
“Snooty publishers,” Aunt Ellie had called Pierce & Rothchilde in her outspoken manner. She loathed anything in herself or anyone else that smacked of elitism.
The house was warm. Upon leaving for Wisconsin, Byron hadn’t thought to turn the heat down from its usual sixty-eight-degree setting. Now…well, it was obvious to him that nothing would ever be the same. Like his last trip to Tyler, Wisconsin, this one had changed him forever.
In his studio, Aunt Ellie grinned her toothy grin from behind a glass-fronted counter on the first floor of Gates Department Store. Beside her, smiling demurely, was her grandniece and namesake, Nora. Byron had had the picture blown up and framed. It was his favorite of all the shots he’d taken that hot Wisconsin August, one he’d held back from the series the Chicago paper had published just before Aunt Ellie’s death, lauching the photographic career of Byron Sanders. Eleanora Gates had seldom left Tyler in her long lifetime, but she’d seen so much, knew so much. The best gift you can give someone you love is the gift of being your whole self. Don’t give yourself to Nora in pieces, Byron. She can’t put you back together. No one can but you. If you ask that of her, you’ll destroy yourself. And you’ll destroy her.
He raised his brandy snifter to her. “You were a wise and kind woman, Miss Eleanora Gates.”
; And he dialed Mrs. Redbacker’s home number, because it was Tuesday night. She’d be with her mother, alternating as she did with her siblings to keep the elderly lady out of a nursing home, and he was guaranteed to get her message machine. Which he did. He left instructions for her, then finished his brandy in the company of Aunt Ellie and her grandniece, and went downstairs.
In his mail—delivered by a housekeeper he hadn’t yet mentioned to Nora—he found a thick padded envelope that looked suspiciously like a manuscript. Didn’t anyone know the difference between a publisher and an editor these days? He didn’t have time to read.
“Aw, gee.”
It was Henry “Hank” Murrow’s technothriller. There was a note attached. “Thought you might want to have a look to see how stupid New York publishers really are.”
Having nothing better to do until morning and knowing he’d never sleep, Byron started to read. After page three he knew that New York publishers weren’t nearly as stupid as ol’ Hank wanted to believe. But he did keep reading.
At least worldwide mayhem was a distraction from thinking about Cliff.
And Nora Gates.
“Oh, Nora,” he whispered, hoping for a dose of her pragmatism and can-do spirit. He’d need them.
* * *
LIZA PACED back and forth from the living room, through the music room, down the hall to the kitchen and back until dawn, then collapsed for a few hours on the study couch. When Nora asked if she needed anything, she pulled in her lips in a look of pure Ingalls stubbornness. “The bastard could’ve left me a note.”
Never had Nora seen anyone as worried about someone and yet as strangely confident that everything, in the end, would be fine. She’d watched Liza’s initial panic settle into a slow burn of frustration. But whatever Cliff’s agenda, his love for Liza Baron was a given. That was settled. Nora considered it bizarre. Cliff Forrester had cut out on Liza just days before their wedding, she might for all she really knew never see him again—and yet there was no doubt in her mind that he loved her. Then what the devil was love? Who needed it?
Love, Nora had thought uncomfortably as she dragged herself off to bed, was a peculiar thing. But she’d known that for years. Look at how she felt about Byron. It was the most mixed-up jumble of feelings any person could possibly want to endure. Her hopes and longings and needs and dreams all suddenly seemed to revolve around that dark-eyed Easterner, and made for lots of tossing and turning. She ached for him. She hurt for him. She wanted for him. She wanted him to be happy, to be everything he could be, needed to be. He had definitely turned her world upside down.
Wisconsin Wedding (Welcome To Tyler, No. 3) Page 17
