Sapphire and Shadow (A Woman's Life)

by Marie Ferrarella

  She could tell by the smile in his voice that the relationship which existed between father and son was one of mutual love and respect. It gave her courage to go on instead of making some inane excuse for calling and hanging up.

  “I, um,” she hesitated. She couldn’t help it, it seemed so forward of her to be calling him. She knew it wasn’t the least bit sophisticated of her, but she had forgotten how to go about this sort of thing. It had been fifteen years since she had thought of herself as unattached.

  Maybe she should have waited until he called and asked. But he had already asked twice before their day was up at the gallery. Once when they had gazed upon the pastoral scenes by Monet right after Joshua had left them and once at her door. It surprised her how clearly she remembered every single detail of the afternoon they had spent together. Of all the times they had spent together, she realized.

  He sensed her discomfort and tried to make it easier for her. “Have you decided to come with me tomorrow?” There was enough boyishness in him to make his voice sound hopeful. “I’d love for you to come, Johanna. It’s so different, so peaceful out there. I’d like to share it with you. And having someone along’ll take the edge off a long drive.”

  “Put that way, I guess I can’t say no.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Seven?” She could just see Mary’s face if someone had ever dared to ask to see her at seven in the morning. Mary only approached seven a.m. from the opposite direction, if she had been out all night. Rising that early was against her religion.

  “I know it’s rather early. But the Foggertys live a bit of a ways out, I’m afraid. On the bright side, once I deliver the chest of drawers, we’ll get to spend the best part of the day in the country.”

  “Shall I pack a lunch?”

  “That would be valor above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “You don’t know what I plan to pack.”

  He laughed and so did she, just at the sound of his voice. And when she finally hung up half an hour later, she felt light-hearted, like a girl looking forward to a date with a beau.

  But it wasn’t a date, she told herself silently as she rose. It was just. . . Just.

  She let it float away at that.

  The countryside as they drove on the road from Cirencester into the Cotswolds was exactly as Tommy had described it: beautiful, breathtaking. Soft and lush and green. He told her that the rolling range of fertile hills used to host the most lucrative sheep farming in the world. Today, centuries later, these hills that stretched diagonally from the southeast to the northwest across Gloustershire were known for their quaint air of the past. The villages were all strictly one-street affairs built around a church or an inn or three. And always there were delightful, tiny shops nestled amid the distinctive beige limestone buildings. Tommy stopped the van in narrow streets several times so that she could stop and enjoy the beautiful simplicity of life that existed here.

  She remembered Arlene’s comment about wanting to run off to the Cotswolds with the leading man in Harry’s movie. What would Arlene have said if she saw her now, riding off into the country with Tommy? Johanna had seen the look of lustful approval in the older woman’s eyes when she had come upon them eating at the cafe.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  His question startled her and she did her best to appear calm. Her nerves felt as if they were close to the surface. Waiting. “Oh, I’m just remembering what someone once said to me about the Cotswold countryside.”

  “What was that?”

  Fortunately, she remembered what else it was that Arlene had said about the Cotswolds. “That this was the country God had made when He was practicing to create Ireland.”

  Even as she was saying it, she suddenly wondered how Tommy would take the comparison. Many people were chauvinistic about the land they called home.

  Tommy laughed quietly. “I take it your friend was Irish.”

  “Yes.”

  “They tend to exaggerate a bit, but there’s no disputing the fact that it is beautiful.” He looked around as he drove. “There’s a lot of history that’s happened here,” he told her. “The cathedral contains the remains of Edward II. He was murdered in Berkeley Castle a few centuries ago.”

  Johanna shivered and ran her hands up and down her arms. “I’m not much on remains.”

  “Then we won’t go.” He grinned, amused. “Once I deliver this chest of drawers, would you like to pick somewhere for a picnic?”

  “I’d love to.” And she meant it. There had been a dozen spots that they had passed on their way that would be more than perfect for a picnic. The enthusiasm she felt was something new and exhilarating and she was eternally grateful to Tommy for generating it. The countryside was ideal for a picnic. It made her feel terribly romantic to think that she would be picnicking in a spot where once English courtiers had done the very same thing some three hundred years ago.

  They drove down a long winding road until they reached a house that, to Johanna, gave new meaning to the word “cottage.”

  “This is adorable,” Johanna whispered to Tommy.

  He helped her down from the van. “Aye, that’s a word for it, I suppose.”

  He confused her, but he did make her feel the way she had when she was nineteen and seeing the world through eyes that were innocent and eager.

  Taking his hand, she stepped down and walked with him to the door. Tommy rapped gently.

  The old couple who responded to Tommy’s knock must have had a hundred and fifty years between them at the least. Rather than treat her as a stranger, they were enthusiastic that Tommy had brought them company.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the woman urged, gesturing to a chair in the kitchen. Warmth came from the hearth and Johanna felt instantly at home. “So nice of you to bring me a lady to gossip with, Tommy.”

  Johanna noted that the old couple held hands as they spoke. And when Mrs. Foggerty smiled, her wrinkles seemed to fade until Johanna hardly noticed them.

  Love did that, Johanna thought with a pang. Love made you happy and young. She envied the couple. This was what she had once believed was in store for her when she married Harry. To grow old loving the same man, sharing the same dreams, the same joys, the way the Foggertys now shared the joy of owning the finely carved chest of drawers that Tommy delivered to them.

  “Please, won’t you stay for tea?” Mrs. Foggerty asked. And, without waiting for an answer, she retreated to the stove and began to brew a pot.

  “Can’t argue with Martha,” Mr. Foggerty said. “She gets something set in her mind and there’s no talking her out of it.” He was a sparse little man, slightly stoop-shouldered from age, but a perfect match for his rose-cheeked wife. They seemed to look alike in the fashion of people who have spent a lifetime together. Crossing his legs, he seemed little more than thin bones held together with skin. But lively. Johanna saw it in his eyes, in his expression. His life might have been hard, but he savored his pleasures well.

  They were the most unique couple, the most enchanting couple she had ever met.

  “Would you mind if I sketched you?” The question surprised Johanna almost as much as it did the Foggertys. It had been years since she had felt the urge to sketch, to paint, to commit something to paper. She felt it now and was almost giddy from the sensation.

  Mrs. Foggerty put her hand to her short fluffy white hair automatically. “Well, my dear, I don’t know. I must look like a sight.” She looked down at the apron she wore. It was creased and wrinkled. “Maybe if I changed—“

  “Oh no, please.” In her agitation, Johanna half rose in her chair. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  “See, Martha, what’ve I been telling you all these years?” Foggerty laughed and drew on his pipe, trying to get it going.

  “Nathaniel, hush.”

  Johanna could have sworn the old woman blushed. It both pleased her and tugged at her heart. Inexplicably, she felt tears gathering and fel
t like a fool. Drawing a deep breath, she managed to hold them at bay.

  “If you have some paper and a pencil, I’d be very grateful. I—I didn’t bring my materials with me.”

  There was no point in telling these nice people she hadn’t held art supplies in her hands in over ten years. The last sketch she had drawn had been of Jocelyn as she had slept in her crib.

  “Why yes, of course.” Mrs. Foggerty hurried off to bring Johanna what she requested.

  Johanna saw Tommy looking at her quietly. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked Tommy.

  He merely smiled and shrugged expansively. “We’ve got the whole day. I’d like to see your handiwork. After all, it’s only fair, I’ve shown you mine.”

  Johanna’s eyes were drawn to the chest of drawers that he had brought in from the back of the van. Temporarily, it reposed in the kitchen until Mrs. Foggerty made up her mind which bedroom it would grace. It seemed to gleam in the corner of the room, lighting it up. It would have been a beautiful addition to any home. And Tommy had fashioned it from raw materials. He was as much of an artist in his right as she was in hers. Perhaps more, she thought.

  “Don’t expect too much,” she told him, suddenly feeling shy. “I’m rusty. Thank you.” She accepted the pencil and pad from Mrs. Foggerty.

  But as Tommy watched quietly, Johanna’s hand moved quickly and confidently over the empty paper, filling it with lines and shadows that became the Foggertys. More than their faces, she captured their souls, the love that shimmered between them now more strongly than it had fifty years ago, when they had first taken their vows.

  “Well, if that’s ‘rusty’ I look forward to seeing what you can do once you improve,” Tommy said in admiration, taking the finished sketch from her.

  “My, my, do I look that good?” Mrs. Foggerty asked, pleased, as she peered at the sketch over Tommy’s shoulder.

  “I sketch what I see,” Johanna told her. The two women exchanged knowing looks that spoke volumes to each other. One had love, one yearned for it, yet felt she would never have it.

  “I wish the same for you and your young man,” Mrs. Foggerty said quietly.

  Tommy saw the color rise to Johanna’s cheeks. “I think we’d better be leaving now,” he told the old couple, rescuing her. “We’ve a long way to go before we reach the city.” He glanced out the window. “And it’s beginning to look like rain.”

  So much for the picnic, Johanna thought. Perhaps it was just as well. She was feeling very vulnerable at the moment, meeting the Foggertys, finding her love of sketching once again.

  “Oh, when isn’t it?” Mrs. Foggerty lamented.

  On impulse, Johanna pressed the sketch into the woman’s wrinkled hands. “For you.”

  Mrs. Foggerty held the pencil sketch as if it were something very precious. She beamed down at it. “Oh, my dear, I don’t know what to say.”

  Johanna patted the woman’s hand. “Just enjoy it. I want you to have it. And thank you for letting me sketch you. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

  “Ready?” Tommy asked, already on his feet.

  “Ready.”

  They said their farewells and hurried to the van.

  “That was very nice of you,” Tommy said.

  She shrugged, trying to appear careless about.it. In truth, she felt her heart hammering. It was as if she had taken a giant step forward in her life. “It was an excellent cup of tea.”

  Tommy laughed.

  Johanna turned and waved at the old couple as they stood, huddled beneath the eaves, waving.

  The first rumble of thunder came as they drove away from the cottage.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Did it bother you?”

  She turned to look at him. The sky beyond the van was turning a deep, murky gray, a forewarning of the coming storm. She wondered if they’d make it back to the hotel in time. She felt uneasy about driving on these narrow country roads in the rain. To the left, far below the winding road, the river churned and lapped, its restless waves reaching toward the sky and the dark pregnant clouds that loomed there. One aspect of nature communing with another.

  “Did what bother me?”

  “When Mrs. Foggerty called me your young man.”

  Johanna looked down at her hands and shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I thought it might bother you ...” her voice trailed off. Nerves began to rise within her, nudging, urging.

  “It didn’t. It doesn’t.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. The promise she had detected in his voice once or twice before was there again.

  But the promise of what? What was it he was offering her? And what was it she wanted? She wasn’t sure she knew any more. But she did know she liked being with him, liked sharing the afternoon. It made her feel young, carefree. Happy. Did anyone have a right to ask for more than this?

  “I’m older than you are, Tommy,” she said quietly.

  Her voice was barely audible. He regretted the question. She looked awkward. He should learn to think a bit more before speaking, he chastised himself. Yet he felt so comfortable with her that he didn’t really feel the need to edit his words. “A couple of years don’t mean very much.” He turned his headlights on as the road grew darker still.

  “I’m thirty-four, Tommy.”

  It was only a number. And it didn’t fit her. “And I’m twenty-nine.”

  “Five years.” She breathed the words out as if they were a death sentence to anything that might have been between them.

  The van felt small, cozy. The light scent that she always wore filled every crevice, filled his head, his very pores. “Only makes a difference if I were two and you seven.”

  She laughed softly. “You’re hard to resist, you know that?”

  Tommy pulled the van over to the side of the road. The thunder rumbled ominously overhead as he touched her cheek gently, running his thumb along the soft hollow. His touch felt soft, so unbearably soft. Her eyes all but fluttered shut.

  “Then don’t try.”

  He breathed the words against her cheek just before he lowered his mouth to hers. Cupping the back of her head with his hand, he drew her closer.

  She wasn’t certain how this moment had come into being, only that it was there. When his lips touched hers, a hungry need exploded within her. The hesitation she felt was only for a moment, and then it was gone as if it never existed. Johanna wound her fingers into his hair, holding him close, drifting miles away from earth. With a mindless passion that she hadn’t realized lived within her, she lost herself in the heat of his mouth as it slanted over hers.

  His mouth was hard and tasted of male things that made her head swim. She held on to steady herself. When he drew back, she moaned, not wanting it to end. And then he leaned his forehead against hers as they both tried to steady their breathing.

  “See? No difference at all, luv,” he murmured.

  With the imprint of his lips still warm on hers, she tried to back away, to cling to reality and things she knew demanded a set course of behavior. “Tommy, I really shouldn’t.”

  “Why?” It wasn’t an impatient statement. He just wanted to know. He wanted her to know. If there were reasons, justifiable reasons, he would back off. But he didn’t think there were. His eyes held hers as he watched her search for an answer.

  “I don’t know.” Her mind was blank. Only the need existed. The need to be held, to be cherished. To be wanted. “There were reasons, I know there were, but I just can’t seem to think of them.” As she spoke, as she struggled to form words, he feathered kisses along her temple and the side of her face.

  “Then don’t, Johanna,” he urged. He took her hands in his, protecting her, drawing her to him. “Don’t. Let me love you the way you were meant to be loved.”

  He saw the look in her eyes when they opened again, saw the fear warring with desire. She was so vulnerable, so achingly tempting. He held her hand in his and it felt small. He drew it to his lips and kissed it.


  “Come,” he whispered.

  And she did.

  She followed him to the back of the van as rain began to pelt the sides of the vehicle, echoing all around them on the lonely road. They were completely alone.

  They could be the last people on earth, she thought as she knelt down beside him on the carpeted floor. It was a soft brown, like his eyes.

  “I won’t hurt you, Johanna,” he promised as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. The cloth that was there burned away at his slightest touch. She felt his fingers working free the buttons of her blouse and then he was gently pushing it from her shoulders. With that single action, he stripped her soul, uncovering something very raw, very basic beneath the surface.

  She could feel his body pressed against hers, his needs hard and warm and wanting. She could feel herself melting. The throbbing within her that had started earlier continued, more urgent than before. If something didn’t happen soon, she was certain that she was going to explode. Yet it couldn’t, dear God, she was a married woman.

  “Tommy.”

  He heard the protest, the pain, the pleading within her voice and knew she was asking for help. She needed him to help her over this obstacle that still held her fast. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. “Shhh.” He pressed his finger to her lips. “It’s all right, Johanna. It’s all right.”

  How could hands so large be so gentle? He had worked her breasts free of her bra and was cupping the sensitive skin with his palms. She gasped, loving what was happening, yet afraid to give in totally.

  “Tommy, it’s not safe,” she whispered, trembling against him. She wanted him to assure her that it was, that what they were doing here and now was right. That it hadn’t the taint of shame to it. If he didn’t make love to her soon, she was going to be utterly consumed by this horrible hunger she felt.

  He gave her no empty assurances. For two people to allow their feelings to be tangled together this way was never completely safe.

  “I know.” He kissed the hollow of her throat. Her skin tingled, burned. All of her was instantly on fire. “You don’t want to be safe anymore, do you?” The words danced along the slope of her neck, seductive, wanton. To be safe meant to retreat completely from life.