"Well." He sat back in his chair and studied me. "Imagine that."
"You're shocked, aren't you?"
"I might well be, yes."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's entirely possible that you and I will never see each other again once we leave here." I glanced up at him.
He nodded. "I hadn't thought of that, but I suppose you're right."
"I know that has led me to be, oh, I don't know, somewhat less restrained in my speech and behavior than I usually am." I met his gaze directly. "I am on holiday, Fletcher, unrestrained from expectations by family or friends or myself. It’s remarkably intoxicating."
He stared, the look in his eyes admiring. That too was intoxicating. "You continue to surprise me, Portia Smithson."
"Goodness, Fletcher." I sighed and shook my head. "I continue to surprise myself."
CHAPTER NINE
The rain continued in the days following Christmas, but Fletcher and I paid little attention to the weather. We were far too busy enjoying each other’s company. All in all, it was quite like the days of my youth when all my cousins would be home from school, and we would do nothing more than play games and talk and enjoy simply being together.
Oh, we weren't together every minute. He spent a great deal of time painting, although he had yet to show me his work. Nor had I posed for him—with clothes or without. Neither of us had brought up the subject. I think we both feared I had changed my mind and feared even more that I hadn't.
We continued our backgammon rivalry, and on any given day, one of us would be no more than a game or two ahead of the other. He was very good, but so was I.
On the day after Christmas, Boxing Day in England, we found ourselves abandoned for most of the day. I knew there was no such holiday in Italy, although Margaret did expect to have the day to herself, and I was not about to tell her otherwise. Fletcher informed me that Silvestro and Agostina would have the day free as well, a tradition their English employer had started years ago. He assured them we could fend for ourselves for the day, reminding the couple that there was more than enough food left from Christmas to feed a small army.
Two days after Christmas, we toyed with the idea of playing backgammon for more than the satisfaction of winning, although I was not sure there was anything in this world more satisfying than beating an arrogant man, but decided against wagering money. I knew from his clothes and the way he spoke that he was well-educated and possibly from a well-to-do family, but he was also a government employee, and I hated the idea of his losing more than he could afford out of some misplaced sense of pride. We decided instead to play for information. One question per victory.
Sometimes the questions were silly. What is your favorite animal? (His was the Bengal tiger, because it truly was a magnificent beast. Mine was the dodo bird, because it was gone now, thanks to mankind, and I believed remembering the creature was the least we could do.) If you could be anyone in history who would you be? (He said Leonardo da Vinci, for obvious reasons. I said Cleopatra, also for obvious reasons.)
Sometimes, the questions and answers were more revealing than anticipated.
"My turn for a question." I fairly chortled with delight. It was the third day after Christmas, and I was doing extremely well.
Fletcher sighed. "You have won three games in a row."
"I know." I grinned. "I am trying not to be too smug."
"And failing," he muttered.
"Now, now, Mr. Jamison." I wagged my finger at him in a chastising manner. "There will be none of that. You lost, and now you must pay. Try not to be afraid."
His brow rose. "I am not afraid."
"Nor should you be." I scoffed. "None of the questions have been especially difficult. Where would you most like to visit? What color do you prefer? Really, Fletcher?" I cast him a condescending look. "Blue? Not summer-sky blue or flawless sapphire blue, but just blue. One expects more from an artist than just blue." I shook my head. "Besides, it's not at all the right color for you, you know."
"I shall keep that in mind," he said dryly. "And you should be able to come up with better questions."
"Very well, then." I said the first thing that popped into my head. "What is your greatest fear?"
"Not living up to expectations," he said without hesitation, then paused as if he hadn't meant to admit that. But the answer lingered in the air like a forbidding cloud. "I don't know why I said that."
"I do," I said lightly, hoping to lessen the abrupt intensity of the moment. "It's a universal fear. We all share it. Fear of not living up to the expectations of parents or families, mothers-in-law or society."
"Mothers-in-law?"
I ignored him. "You said it yourself. There are expectations and responsibilities faced by each and every one of us. We can only hope for a, oh, a holiday from those expectations now and again."
"You are entirely too pretty to be this clever." He smiled in a reluctant manner. "And you are far smarter than anyone would suspect."
"Most women are, Fletcher." I handed him the dice. "As I have won the last three games, you may roll first."
"How very gracious of you."
"I know."
He spilled the dice onto the board. "And what are you afraid of, Portia?"
"Volcanoes."
"Volcanoes?" Fletcher bit his lip, but he clearly thought this was funny. "Volcanoes like Vesuvius?"
"Not like Vesuvius," I said coolly. "Vesuvius specifically."
"Why?"
"I have no idea. Admittedly, it's not entirely rational, but I do not like living in the shadow of a volcano." I shrugged. "Perhaps I lived in Pompeii in a previous life."
"Reincarnation?" Again, he looked as if he were about to burst into laughter. I, however, was not amused.
"I read a great deal, Fletcher. No one seems to realize that," I added under my breath. "I do understand the concept. Now." I held up my hand to keep him from speaking and no doubt saying something sarcastic. It was hard for him. I could see it in his eyes. "I know the volcano has not spewed anything of significance for thirteen years, eight months and two days—"
"You know that, do you?"
"It seemed a wise piece of information to have. However, something unpleasant could happen at any time."
"By unpleasant you mean fiery rocks raining down from the sky? Molten lava? That sort of thing?" The man could barely keep a straight face.
I didn't understand why. It was not as if I was fearful of something like a spider that I could crush under my foot. Although I was not fond of spiders.
"Exactly." I nodded. "I do understand the threat of annihilation may be the price one pays for Paradise, and I realize my concern might be considered silly. Therefore . . ." I straightened my shoulders in a show of bravery. "I am not about to let my concerns send me screaming off into the night. I'm not terrified, simply aware."
"We could take an excursion to the top of Vesuvius to view the crater," he said thoughtfully, as if he were actually considering such a thing. "It might alleviate your fears."
"Are you insane?" I stared at him with all the indignation I could muster. "I needn't meet the devil face-to-face to know he exists. The last thing I want to do is stick my head in a volcano!"
"I simply thought it might help." He adopted an innocent expression I did not believe for a moment.
"And I am grateful for that." What was the man thinking? I drew a calming breath. "I must say, I feel very foolish at the moment, so let's continue the game as if you had asked a question no more significant than my favorite book. Oh." I pinned him with a stern look. "And should you ever win again—"
"And I will."
"—you have forfeited your next question, as you have already asked it out of turn and been given far more extensive an answer than I wished to give."
"Fair enough." He nodded.
"And it's my turn." I rolled the dice. "Do not think I shall be easier on you simply because you've been losing."
He chuckled. "I would never think that."
It struck me that we had both revealed something we would have preferred to keep to ourselves. Mine was silly, really. A fear I hadn't even realized I had until I was here, with the volcano ever present in the distance. His was something he had lived with all his life. My fear could be abated simply by returning home. His was far more complicated.
Four days after Christmas, the rain finally stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds. Fletcher and I took the opportunity afforded by the break in the weather to walk the twenty minutes or so into town. The roads were muddy, but I hadn't seen anything of Sorrento yet, the charming ancient town perched on the rocky cliffs. I must say, my Baedeker’s had not done it justice. The view over the bay from the public gardens was magnificent, and we shared a few moments of companionable silence. Although my thoughts were far from the picturesque vista and firmly on the man by my side.
With every day spent in Fletcher's company, I liked him more and more. I liked how he laughed and the way a lock of his hair fell over his forehead when he concentrated. I liked the look of passion in his eyes when he was working and the wicked twinkle I'd see unexpectedly on occasion when he looked at me. I didn’t know what that meant, or indeed what I wanted it to mean. But with every hour, every minute, I liked him more and more.
I was snapping, there was no other excuse for it. Exactly as Veronica had predicted. There was no doubt that between Veronica, Julia and myself I was the one most concerned with proper behavior and the appearance of propriety. The one least willing to bend. The one most likely to snap. And Lord help me, I wanted to snap. With every inadvertent brush of his hand against mine, every unguarded glance, every shared moment, I wanted it—wanted him—more and more.
And more and more I wondered what he wanted. Why, the man hadn't even tried to kiss me. Sometimes, I would catch him looking at me, and it was clear he wanted to. What on earth was holding him back? Was he that much of a gentleman? Shouldn't there be at least a touch of hedonistic artist behind that honorable facade? I was beginning to suspect his true purpose was simply to drive me mad. In that, he might well be succeeding.
I had awakened this morning with renewed resolve. At some point late in the night, as I tossed and turned and again dreamt of being in Fletcher's arms, it had dawned on me that if he was what I wanted, he was what I should have. I was a woman of adventure, after all. Even if having him wasn't the sort of thing I did. But then, I'd never really had the chance either, had I? Nor had I had the desire.
Now it seemed I had both.
"I have been thinking about what you said yesterday," Fletcher began, his gaze focused on the vista before us.
"If I recall, I said a great many things yesterday. Most of which needn't be repeated," I added. "Ever."
"You mean that irrational nonsense about the volcano?" He waved off my concern. "I've forgotten it entirely."
"Hmph."
"But you also said we might never see each other again after we leave the villa."
"When we first decided to be friends," I said slowly, "we did say we would go our separate ways when our stay here was ended."
"I suppose we did." He nodded. "Nonetheless, I have been giving it further consideration."
"Oh?" I held my breath.
"I think it's very practical."
Disappointment stabbed me and with it annoyance. Absurd, of course, as I didn't know what I’d hoped he might say. But I did know it wasn't praise for the practicality of never seeing each other again. "Practical?"
"Without question," he said firmly, and that too annoyed me. "It simply makes sense. For one thing, you live in England, and I reside in India."
"But England is your home."
"Yes, of course, but I have no idea when I'll be back there permanently. It might be years."
"So it's only practical to accept that we will probably never see each other again?" With every word, I was becoming more and more irate. It scarcely mattered that I was the one who had first said it. That I had realized, and indeed accepted, the very same thing some time ago. But now, well, now things were different. At least for me. "That our, our friendship is indeed finite? Destined to end?"
"It seems to me"—caution sounded in his voice—"you have been practical from the beginning."
"Oh?"
"Come now, Portia. I would be a fool not to have noticed. Every time we talk, you are careful not to reveal too much of your life." He paused. "Admittedly, I have done the same thing."
"Because it's practical." I fairly spit the word.
"It is. Or, rather, it was." His brows drew together. "It made perfect sense. After all, we were strangers."
"And now?"
"And now . . . we aren't," he said weakly.
"Perhaps we should have stayed strangers," I said sharply, turned and started back the way we had come.
"Where are you going?" he said behind me.
"It appears to be clouding over again. I would hate to be caught in the rain. It’s only practical to return to the villa."
"Portia," he called after me. "Just because the chances are good that we will never see each other again doesn't mean that's what I want."
I turned on my heel and faced him. He nearly stumbled into me. "What do you want, Fletcher?"
His eyes widened, and a look akin to terror passed over his face. The look of a man tripped up by his own words, or that of an animal caught in a trap. A rat perhaps. "Well, I don't know."
"I didn't think so." I huffed in disdain, turned and continued on.
His strides were far longer than mine, and in two steps he was by my side. "What do you want?"
"Oh no, you are not playing that game with me." I sniffed.
"What game?"
"The game where you will not tell me what you are thinking until I tell you what I am thinking first!"
"I'm not playing any game."
"Mr. Jamison." I stopped and glared at him. "You're right. We will never see each other again, and it's only practical, sensible and reasonable to understand that and accept it. There. Are you happy?"
"Not especially."
"Good!" I started off again. I knew I was being entirely unreasonable, but I couldn't seem to help myself.
"I daresay you're not being either practical, sensible or reasonable at the moment," he yelled after me.
"Nor do I wish to be!" I threw back over my shoulder. "I have been entirely too practical, sensible and reasonable for much of my life. I am tired of it!"
He was fast enough to catch up with me, but instead, he chose to follow a short distance behind. Wise of him. "You're angry at me, I can tell."
"How perceptive of you!"
"I'm not sure what I've done."
"An intelligent man like you can surely figure it out!"
We walked on in stony silence on my part, utter confusion on his. But he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. If I was indeed being reasonable, although I had no desire to be anything other than angry at the moment, I would admit that he couldn't be expected to know the directions my thoughts had taken in regards to him. In regards to us. I wasn't being the least bit fair to him.
I didn’t care.
I was very aware of him no more than a few feet behind me all the way back to the villa. I would have thought my ire would have eased with every step, and yet it only seemed to increase. It struck me that I was not merely irate but hurt. I thought we were sharing something beyond simple friendship. Not love, of course. I would never again mistake affectionate companionship for deep, abiding, forever love. I had made that mistake once. And it had been quite nice, and I had been content.
I would not settle for content again.
I was completely irrational, and I realized it. This wasn't at all like me. Not Portia, Lady Redwell, who was so cognizant of proper behavior that I was considered more than a little stuffy. Who was so unwilling to cause difficulties or, God forbid, scandal, that I had always done exactly what was appropriate and acceptable, right down to marrying the sort of man it was
expected I would marry. Which perhaps wasn't fair to David. He was a good man, and I never doubted that he loved me. But I also suspected that he would have been every bit as content with someone else, as probably would I. It was not a good revelation to have about one's husband or one's marriage, and I hadn't recognized the truth of it until long after David was gone and I realized, while I did miss him, my life had not ended with his.
When we reached the villa, I drew a deep breath and turned to face Fletcher. He stopped in mid-step and eyed me cautiously. As one might look at a volcano set to erupt.
"I owe you an apology, Fletcher." I clasped my hands in front of me.
"Do you?" he said carefully.
"You were absolutely right. It is practical to accept the limited nature of our friendship. We might very well never see each other again after we leave the villa. We're no more than ships that pass in the night, really."
He took a step closer. "Portia, I—"
"Goodness, Fletcher, there really isn't more to say. At least I have no more to say on the subject." I narrowed my eyes, and challenge sounded in my voice. "Do you?"
He stared at me for a long moment. "No," he said at last. "No, I don't suppose I do."
"Excellent." I cast him my brightest smile. "Now then, if you will excuse me, I fear I feel a headache coming on, and I think I should rest a bit before dinner."
"Yes, of course." He nodded. "I do hope you will still be able to join me for dinner."
"As do I." I nodded, turned and entered the villa, pausing for no longer than it took to hand Silvestro my hat and mantelet, then continued to my rooms.
As much as I will acknowledge I was not being the least bit reasonable, it made no difference. I was angry. At him and perhaps at myself, although I couldn’t quite say why. If I was being perfectly honest, I would have to admit that I really didn't know what I wanted from the man, what I expected from him. It was obvious, as well, that he had no idea what he wanted from me. If anything.
All I knew for certain, alone in my room on an overcast day in Paradise, was that I might well have just had the tiniest taste of what a broken heart might feel like.
I resolved not to taste it again.
Same Time, Next Christmas Page 9
