Heartsong
Page 6
About a mile from home the car coughed and sputtered. Skye tensed. “Not again,” she said, groaning inwardly. Suddenly the buzzer to her seat belt began to hiss, although it was connected. The radio began making eerie, high-pitched screeches, fading in and out. She had purposely turned it off in order to think. Quickly she pulled her small Ford to the curb before it gave one final cough and died.
“Blast it.” Her hand banged the steering wheel impatiently. First Peggy’s comment and now this! She tried turning the ignition key but was met with silence.
“I can’t believe it!” She opened her car door, climbed out, and in a burst of frustration slammed the door shut. She didn’t even bother to look under the hood, knowing it was useless for her to try to figure out what was wrong.
It began to rain about halfway home, an angry torrent that added fuel to her bad mood. She was drenched by the time she arrived at her apartment building. Heavy drops of rain ran off her hair and face as she paused to unlock her door.
John Dirkson stuck his head out of his apartment and greeted her with a flashy grin. “I see you got yourself all wet and cold. I’m perfectly willing to warm you up,” he offered, with all the subtlety of a serpent.
“Oh, shut up, John,” Skye stormed, and shut her door in his surprised face.
No more than two minutes later her doorbell rang impatiently.
Stamping her foot irritably, she turned off the bathwater. Luckily she hadn’t gotten around to undressing.
“Don’t hassle me, John, I’m in no mood to—” She stopped dead in midsentence. It was Jordan. What was he doing here? Oh, no, not him. Why hadn’t he returned to LA? Why didn’t he just get out of her life?
“Do I detect a note of anger?” he asked, amused, letting himself in.
Skye gave a short sarcastic laugh. “Angry? Me? That’s my problem: I don’t have the common sense to get good and mad every now and then. People think they can take advantage of me, that I won’t fight back. They think of me as Holly Holiness.”
Irrationally she paced the floor, waving her hands.
“A Pollyanna?” Jordan inserted.
“Exactly!” She stopped and looked at him momentarily. “I’m as even-tempered and coolheaded as the next person. But I’ll only be driven so far.”
The amusement left Jordan’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“You know what my problem is?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I never let loose. I let people walk all over me. Well, I’m good and loose now,” she said as she continued pacing. “I don’t smoke. I don’t swear. I’ve never marched in a protest rally. I didn’t even burn my bra when it was the popular thing to do.” She stopped to take a quick breath. “Well, I’ve had just about as much as I’m going to take.”
“Skye?”
She ignored him.
“Skye?” He spoke louder.
“I’m taking the mechanic to court. I’ll sue him for every penny. He’ll …”
She didn’t get the opportunity to finish. Jordan swiftly caught her arm and pulled her flush against him. Before she could protest, his mouth captured hers.
Taken completely by surprise, Skye felt the anger drain away, replaced by a budding awareness. She was frightened that she should respond to him like this, all consideration of her anger and her plight erased by a single action.
She broke the contact, raising her questioning eyes to his. His look trapped her, warm and sensual. Slowly his hand slid over her back, drawing her closer to him.
Taking an uneven breath in confusion, Skye made a feeble attempt to break away. Undaunted, he continued the gentle caress, slowly drawing her into his protective embrace. When he lowered his mouth to hers, her lips parted in anticipation.
Why does it have to be him? her mind questioned unreasonably. His very touch seemed to bring her suddenly back to life. She was caught in the sensual awareness and yet felt frightened and unsure. If this continued, Jordan Kiley could easily become a weakness she might not be able to overcome. Forcefully she tore her lips from his and, taking a deep breath, struggled to regain her bearings.
“Jordan, please, this is important,” she insisted.
“I know,” he said, his voice thick and husky as he explored the side of her neck.
“Please, stop.” She was breathless yet fervent. “Kissing me isn’t going to fix my car.”
He straightened, his mouth curving into smiling grooves. “Ah, but my arm aches considerably less.”
She broke contact, moving purposefully away from him. “I … I think aspirin would work far more effectively.”
He shrugged, his glance focusing on her lips as if to say it wasn’t aspirin he was interested in.
Her pique rose. “Darn it, Jordan Kiley, don’t look at me like that. I’m stuck with a useless piece of junk, and you want to play spin the bottle.”
Promptly he pulled her back into his arms and placed a quick kiss upon her unsuspecting lips. “Settle down, or I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.”
She stared up at him wordlessly, swallowing tightly.
“Now, what’s wrong with your car?”
She couldn’t answer. Her heart was hammering so wildly, it made clear thinking impossible. She lowered her head, not wanting Jordan to see the effect he had on her.
His free hand gently lifted her face. “Your car?”
“It’s not running again.” Her voice didn’t sound right, even to herself. “It stalled last week, and I couldn’t get it started. I phoned the car dealership where I’d bought it, and they put a new battery in. The mechanic said since the car is three years old, that probably was the problem.”
“Who’s the mechanic?”
“George somebody. He works for Olsen Ford, where I bought the car.”
“And?”
“Well, it died again the other day, and this George said it needed a new alteration.”
“Alternator,” Jordan supplied with a grin.
“Whatever!” she said irritably. “Anyway, the car did it again today. That’s why I’m drenched. I had to leave it and walk home.”
A flickering light of anger entered his eyes. “I’ll handle it for you.”
“No,” she challenged sharply. “It’s going to give me a great deal of pleasure to talk to these people.”
A light rap on her door stiffened her instinctively. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
A tall, well-dressed man of towering bulk greeted her.
“Jordan here?” He placed heavy emphasis on Jordan, his expression alive with amusement.
“Bill.” The name was spoken with no welcome as Jordan moved toward the man. “I said I’d only be a minute.”
The huge man shrugged. “I got tired of waiting” was the only excuse he offered. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“Bill Malloy, Skye Garvin.” The introduction was issued grudgingly.
Bill Malloy smiled warmly at Skye, and his strong hand closed firmly over hers. “You’re everything Jordan said and more.” He released her hand slowly. His eyes, trapping hers, possessed a mocking gleam.
“Weren’t we on our way to a meeting?” Jordan asked curtly.
“We were.” Bill smiled. “I know how Dan hates to be kept waiting.”
“Then let’s get moving.” Jordan’s voice sounded thin and brittle.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Skye.” Jordan’s friend’s gaze continued to hold hers.
“Yes,” she said in some confusion. Her attention darted from one man to the other. Bill was finding something highly amusing, but what? Jordan was recognizably upset. His lips were firmly compressed, as if he was holding his anger tightly in check.
“I’ll phone you,” he promised Skye, ushering his friend out the door. Gently his hand touched her cheek.
Skye watched them go, thoroughly bewildered. Jordan had never mentioned why he’d stopped by. Although he hadn’t said he was returning to LA, Skye had gotten the impression he was. She honestly hadn’t expected to see him again.
The bathwater steamed up the bathroom mirror. It was a luxury to linger in the tub. Skye could actually feel the hot water chase away her chill. Scooping the moisture over herself with the washcloth, her thoughts drifted back to her visit with Peggy. It was almost unbelievable that her sister-in-law would talk to her like that. And because the things Peggy said were so untrue, it hurt all the more. Skye had come so far, considering that the grief had been overwhelming at first. It was as if the pieces of her life had crumbled before her. But simply because she was a living, breathing soul, she found herself forced into a resilient, elastic world. Although others cared, they couldn’t know the emotional torture she had endured. Suddenly a gnawing pain swelled inside her until her eyes burned with tears.
Resting her head against the back of the tub, she stared sightlessly at the ceiling, tears streaming unheeded down her face. Could it be that Peggy was right? Had all this grief lain just below the surface, not really being dealt with at all? Skye examined the last eight years of her life. Had she really made a martyr of herself? Deflecting male relationships and commitment to another man? But Glen had been so special. He was the only man she’d ever loved, ever wanted. Loving another would betray what they had shared. It had been cruel and heartless to take him from her.
It came to her then. Profound and deep. The shock raised goose bumps over her pale skin, although she lay in a tub of steaming water. She blamed God for taking Glen. Over the years she had yielded other areas of her life to her Lord but had stubbornly withheld this one facet of her Christian walk. Her faith had been smaller than a mustard seed. Instead of looking upon his death and all that followed as having worked together for her good, Skye had never forgiven God.
Rising from her bath, she wrapped a towel around herself and faced the bathroom mirror. With jerking movements she wiped away the steam to examine herself. Sally was right; her hairstyle—the coiled bun—was harsh and purposely unattractive. With troubled eyes and her heart hammering, she pulled the pins and watched her hair tumble down. It needed to be cut to a more manageable length. Her pale cheeks looked bloodless and waxen. How long had it been since she’d purposely made herself attractive? But perhaps she looked wan because she was seeing herself with new soul-searching eyes.
She dressed quickly, an urgency driving her. Throwing open the doors to her closet, she critically examined its contents. Her clothes were outdated and unappealing—beiges, grays, browns, and blacks. The exceptions were a few colorful outfits her family had given her for Christmas and her birthday.
Perhaps most profound was how she’d maintained her wit and sense of humor. Her natural good taste in clothes and style had wavered dramatically over the years, but not her enthusiasm and vitality. Instinctively she knew if she’d allowed this bizarre grief to infiltrate the core of her personality, she would have shriveled up and died in a unique form of suicide.
“Oh, Father,” her soul cried out, “forgive me, forgive me.” She fell to her knees beside the bed and buried her face in her hands. A peaceful silence filled the room as she surrendered this part of her life to her Lord. Time lost meaning as Skye poured out her heart, and when she rose she felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her, an eight-year-old yoke she had bound to herself. She was free to love and be loved … at last.
Later that evening she idly flipped through the pages of the TV Guide, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. She felt like a new woman and stood to examine herself again … A smiling stranger was reflected back. She had spent most of the afternoon on a one-woman crusade to create a new image for herself, and she was pleased with the results.
Her first concern had been her car. She had called the dealership expecting to do battle, but the mechanic stumbled all over himself apologizing. He didn’t know what the problem was, but he would look into it immediately. He worked so quickly, Skye was stunned. He stopped at her house for her keys, had her car towed to the shop, and returned, all within forty-five minutes. It had been a cut wire, he explained with chagrin. There was no charge.
Her first stop had been at the beautician’s, who’d cut only an inch or two from the length of her hair. An overall treatment added body and vitality to the silky gold strands.
Now it curled beautifully around her shoulders like a gilded wreath highlighted by beams of moonlight. In her closet hung three new outfits in attractive colors. The old clothes were packed away in sacks, ready to be donated to charity. A warm smile quivered at the corners of her mouth as she remembered Sally’s reaction that afternoon.
“Skye?” Sally had asked in a questioning tone, almost as if she didn’t recognize her friend. “I like it, I like it.” Enthusiastically she circled Skye, nodding approvingly. “Holy mackerel, what happened to you?” Sally laughed gaily. “No, there’s no need to answer that, I already know … Jordan Kiley happened to you. I knew it was coming someday, I just never thought I’d live to see it.” She clapped her hands with the enthusiasm of a young child.
“Come on, you’re embarrassing me,” Skye said, grinning. “But no”—she waved her hand to press her point—“it’s not Jordan Kiley.” It was only a partial lie. The transformation had come as a result of her talk with Peggy, Skye told herself.
“Oh?” Sally sounded skeptical. “Is there someone else I don’t know about?”
“Have you met John Dirkson, my neighbor?” Skye asked coyly, instantly regretting the implication.
“You know darn good and well I haven’t.” Sally wrinkled her nose in suspicion. “Tell me about him.”
This was becoming more than a half-truth, and Skye lowered her head guiltily, hoping to hide her discomfort by picking up one of the puppies chewing at the toe of her shoe. “There isn’t much to tell.” She prayed for a nonchalant, devil-may-care attitude. “The reason I stopped by is to tell you I would be taking one of the puppies. It’s Janey’s birthday soon, and I thought this fluffy little rascal would make an excellent gift.”
“My dear friend, you know the path leading directly to my heart,” Sally noted dramatically. “Are you certain you wouldn’t care for another one as well? It would be a shame to separate these brothers. Besides, if you took both of these well-behaved, royal-blooded mutts, all my problems would be solved.”
“Dreamer,” Skye said pointedly, and laughed as Sally hung her head in despair.
Several hours later, the apartment felt lonely and lifeless. Loud rock music blared from the party across the hall. Involuntarily Skye tapped her foot to the beat of the slower ballads, which blared in equal volume. For the first time in years her feet yearned to dance. Without warning the image of dancing with Jordan rose to her mind, and she bit her lip at the appeal the image conjured.
When the phone suddenly began ringing, Skye jerked around, caught off guard by the unexpectedness.
Two rings.
It had to be Jordan. He’d said he was going to phone, and he was a man of his word.
Three rings.
She stared mutely at the ringing phone, frozen in her chair.
Four rings.
She had made such a fool of herself this afternoon.
Five rings.
How could she have ranted and raved like that?
Six rings.
How could she have said those things?
Silence.
Skye breathed again.
Chapter Five
Hauling her guitar, Bible, and purse from the parking lot to the church, Skye found Peggy waiting for her in the foyer.
“Skye,” Peggy said, looking troubled and uncertain, “I like your hair. When did you have it cut?” she asked haltingly.
“Yesterday afternoon … And thanks, I like it, too.” She accepted the compliment but wondered how long it would take Peggy to notice the real change.
Tears shimmered in Peggy’s eyes. “I want to apologize for yesterday. I
was blunt and rude. Will you forgive me?” It was apparent from her hurried speech that their conversation had weighed heavily on her mind.
Tears misted Skye’s deep blue eyes as well. “Of course I will, Peg. But there’s no need to apologize. Most of what you said was true.”
“Perhaps, but there were nicer ways of saying it.” Her fingers wiped away the moisture from her cheek, and she gave a half laugh. “We better get to class before we turn into Water Works, Incorporated, right here in the church foyer.”
Skye was touched by the thoughtfulness of her sister-in-law. “I’ll talk to you later.” Impulsively she set her guitar down and gave Peggy an affectionate hug before making her way to the Youth Department downstairs.
Working with the youth Sunday mornings offered Skye a challenge completely different from her kindergartners, one Skye enjoyed. She was the Sunday School teacher for the eighth-grade group and was also in charge of the opening Sunday services.
She was met in the large room by several enthusiastic hoots and a couple of wolf whistles. The youths had always been known for their liveliness, and Skye responded with a ready smile.
The songs she led were some of the standard ones the teens enjoyed. She wandered around the room, her fingers moving agilely over the guitar strings. She paused, seeing two of the younger teen girls passing notes. Past experience had taught her that if she brought pressure from within their own peer group, any behavior problems cleared up quickly.
She stopped the song. “All right, girls.” She didn’t mention names but pointedly fixed her gaze on the offending class members. “This isn’t the Woody Woodpecker Hour.”