Trouble in Paradise

by Jennifer Greene

  And the silence in the room continued to drum in her ears, a silence that hadn’t been part of the house since the kids had come to live with them. Dusk was settling like a velvet stillness from the west windows; night was coming, that feeling of night enfolding her as he reached for her.

  She felt swallowed up, so fast. His big, cool hands enveloped her, and the first kiss on her mouth arched her neck back. So hungry, all warm and hungry… Her hands reached up around his neck, instinctively soothing, her touch tentative and careful; she wasn’t absolutely sure where Griff was coming from. Every inch of her skin knew the desire to be held, to be wanted as only Griff had ever wanted her; her mind refused to go quite that fast. A half hour before there had been hamsters and a terrible headache and all that noise and the look on Griff’s face when he had confronted her with it all…

  “Let it go,” he whispered. “Let it be, Susan.”

  He made it sound so easy. He made it seem so easy. His knuckle grazed the swell of her breasts as his fingers released the front hook of her bra. Her breasts were free, aching for the touch of his cupped hands. Her soft flesh was oversensitive, made painfully tender by the sweet, fierce messages Griff kneaded into it.

  He lifted her up and settled her on the bed, folding the spread impatiently out of the way. Then he knelt, peeling off the silk half-slip, peeling off the sheer hose, peeling off the small wisp of silk panties. He looked at her, savoring the golden sheen of flesh with a possessiveness that sent a blind rush of lush sensations through Susan’s bloodstream.

  She would have reached for him then, all willing, but he barely gave her the chance. With a low, guttural groan, he stretched out over her, raising her arms above her head like a pirate pinning down his captive. He loosened his hold then, but not before she’d enjoyed the sensation of hand to hand, breast to breast, thigh to thigh. That closeness had been a message: they were one person, not two. Griff knew her well; he would know all of her, claim all of her. There would be no holding back.

  His lips crushed her and then began to travel. The rough-smooth sensations of his soft mouth and bristly cheek sent a thousand erotic calls echoing through Susan’s head. Griff was making a valiant effort at patience. He was in no mood for slow, sweet lovemaking. His mood was a fierce, urgent desire to consume. His lips swept over her flesh, from her hard-tipped nipples to the tiny curve of her stomach to the softness of her thigh; the tempo of his breathing increased, and hunger vibrated through him like a shudder.

  She slid her hand down over his hip, then let it turn inward, knowing exactly what she was doing to him. Both of her hands moved to his head when he loomed over her; her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him down, so that a kiss blended exquisitely with his silken smooth thrust into her body. Her spine arched for him, legs twisting. She knew the rhythm, the fierce, primal rhythm… The climb started from her womanly core, a fever as heated as his, a desperate need that tumbled not only her defensive walls but the whole world. Just Griff. There was only Griff in that place…

  Yet from somewhere other emotions intruded, desperately unwanted. Tension from the real world, fear, anxieties not resolved… The feelings surfaced, not as conscious thought but as a faltering in intensity, a slip in rhythm for Susan, something she couldn’t help… But she could pretend for Griff’s sake. It didn’t matter. Griff did; loving him was what counted, and when she felt his body grow taut in a last effort to control his pleasure for her, she urged him on, whispering, her body arching into his, her hands ceaselessly encouraging him.

  When his body exploded in release, she felt a special joy that came from the heart rather than from the sensual pleasures of the body. She stroked him, curling up next to him, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow, loving the sheen of moisture on his body and the sheer exhilaration of the feel of him next to her.

  It was several minutes before he shifted, before he slid down next to her and turned. His lips touched her forehead; his hand cradled her head as he lifted her face to his. “It was good for you?” he whispered.

  “Very good,” she whispered back, meaning it. It had been good—if not in quite the way he meant.

  He sighed, his eyes very dark over her, very grave and almost menacing. Still, a faint, seemingly amused smile touched his lips. “I had no idea exactly how much we needed to get straight in this relationship,” he scolded, his voice still husky and low. “Don’t do that to me again, Susan. Ever.”

  “Do?” She was bewildered.

  “Fib.” He shook his head, scoldingly, his displeasure reinforced by the delicate nip he took at a spot directly between her neck and shoulder. “I was faster than a speeding bullet. I’m not denying that. As you are on occasion. Maybe I was just in a hell-bent hurry to break down your defenses before we even tried to talk, because I could see you repairing old walls, love. Anyway, the reason doesn’t matter. But you fake nothing with me, Susan, you understand?”

  The kiss that landed on her mouth was rough and sweet and very, very clear. “We take care of each other,” he murmured. “Don’t ever, ever think again that I’m not willing to take care of you.”

  His hands slipped down with caresses, all silk, tantalizing and gently alluring. Giving her back the mood she’d thought was lost, driving away her fear that the children would come back too soon, disallowing this time, all conscious and unconscious hesitation. His lips followed his hands, and he was so intent on ingraining a particular lesson of love that he didn’t let her go until she had shuddered violently in her own ecstatic release, once, twice, three times.

  ***

  Susan went through the evening in an oddly sleepy, desultory haze. At some point, she remembered munching on a sandwich while she let Tiger slaughter her in a game of checkers, and at another point she remembered curling up next to Griff on the living room couch as all five of them watched a half-hour sitcom that was perfectly dreadful…but they all laughed. Only later did it occur to her that she and Griff hadn’t had the talk Griff had insisted they have when he came home like a storming Viking.

  That occurred to her about the same time that she wandered in the kitchen to find the dishes done. Moments later, she walked upstairs to find that the kids’ bedrooms had been miraculously tidied up. Good fairies? No, obviously more potent forces were at work. There were fresh towels in the bathroom.

  She was too tired by then to think it out. Tucked in next to Griff with the comforter pulled up to their chins, she felt her eyes drooping with fatigue. It was Griff who had used a very silent, very heavy hand with the kids behind the scenes; she knew that.

  She couldn’t help feeling that Griff must be disappointed in the way she was handling his children. One tongue lashing from him and his brood jumped, but she just wasn’t built that way.

  A nameless fear was beginning to haunt her nights—that in other ways she wasn’t built as Griff must have thought initially. They’d had to snatch those moments of lovemaking; was that how it was to be? Granted, this was a period of transition, and yes, she loved the children. She also valued privacy. She needed it and had needed it all her life. She needed privacy with Griff as well. Their own relationship was still new…too new, she thought fleetingly. Loving him, she was afraid to admit that he just might be disappointed in his choice of a wife. She had not been blessed with either self-sufficiency or confidence. And she wanted—needed—more of Griff than a quick, stolen moment now and then.

  ***

  When Susan woke up, the place next to her in the bed was empty, and she had a strange, queasy feeling in her stomach. Those sandwiches for dinner had obviously not agreed with her, she thought wryly, and dragged herself sleepily out of bed. The clock showed six o’clock, but Griff was already up and out. She knew that, because today was Friday, and with any luck the labor negotiations at the plant would end today.

  Yawning, she snatched up bra and pants and slip. By the time she’d showered and put on underclothes, it was twenty minutes later, and she rapped on the three children’s doors to waken them. Why
was her stomach playing leapfrog? Ignore it, she advised herself. Pulling on a yellow crocheted dress, she ran a brush through her hair, applied a minimum of makeup and gave up her bathroom to the morning lineup. Not that there weren’t other bathrooms, but even Barbara now demanded that she be allowed to feed the fish.

  Downstairs, Susan switched on the kitchen light and began to do the dozen assorted chores it took to start the day. Pack the lunches; prepare some breakfast; take something out of the freezer for dinner; remind Tiger where he left his book bag; throw in a load of laundry… Every precious second of that morning hour counted and, of course, this morning a few were lost. The downhill slide started when she poured herself a quick cup of coffee, tried to take a sip, and felt her nostrils flare at the revolting smell.

  She set the cup down. Waffles for Tiger; Tom liked two eggs sunny-side up; Barbara would have to be coaxed into eating one slice of toast—she was afraid of losing her sylphlike figure; nutrition was “stupid.” While she cracked the eggs, Tiger’s head suddenly showed around the door, his hair slicked down with water, his face most definitely grave this morning.

  “Susan,” he said seriously, “I think we’re going to have to have a cat.”

  “We are, are we? Honey, I think I saw your gym sneakers under the couch. Your book bag’s behind your coat.”

  “We need one,” Tiger continued. “We’ve always needed a cat. Our whole lives, this family has never had a cat.”

  “You’re tired of the hamsters already?”

  Tiger shook his head, perching directly next to her on the counter so that she had to reach around him. “The hamsters are neat, especially the babies. But they really smell. Cats don’t smell.”

  Susan’s stomach did not want to be reminded of the hamsters’ odor. She poured batter into the waffle iron, fielded Tom’s kiss on the cheek and responded to his affectionate “Morning, Mom-Two” while handing him his plate of eggs. Then she headed toward the refrigerator to make a cheese sandwich for Barbara’s lunch. A cheese sandwich was calorically acceptable to Barbara; nutrition was still “stupid.” The girl had fallen asleep last night with Thirty Ways to Develop Your Bust clutched in her hand; apparently, eating balanced meals wasn’t one of the thirty ways.

  Barbara came into the kitchen yawning. The uniform it took her nearly an hour to get into consisted of jeans and a clinging sweater—mohair this morning. Her hair was brushed back simply. Her eyelashes looked suspiciously dark and velvety, but that was one of the few battles Susan had subtly won about a week before. The tiniest touch of Vaseline accomplished the same thing as mascara, and Griff didn’t threaten to disown her because of Vaseline. Barbara, on a rare day, could see reason.

  “Morning, Susan.”

  “Morning, honey.” She served Barbara’s toast and Tiger’s waffles, along with three large glasses of milk—Tiger’s was chocolate—then rapidly took away Tom’s empty plate and opened a fresh package of cheese for Barbara’s sandwich, keeping one eye on the sink to be sure Barbara didn’t try to pour her milk down the drain.

  Smoked cheddar. She’d always loved it. Yet when she opened the package, Susan stepped back, feeling waves of nausea engulf her. She took a deep breath, and then a second. “Barbara,” she asked idly, “do you think you could make your own sandwich while I throw in a wash?”

  All three kids suddenly looked at her. Barbara got up from the table, rubbing her hands together to brush off the last of the toast crumbs. “Sure. We wouldn’t want to overtax you, Susan. I got the drift last night.” Her look was bitter and her tone sarcastic.

  Susan swallowed. “If your father said something to you,” she started quietly.

  Barbara laughed.

  “Shove it,” Tom suggested to his sister.

  Barbara clammed up, and began to slap cheese slices between pieces of bread, not looking at Susan.

  “Honey, I only asked you to help with the sandwiches because—”

  “Like, it’s perfectly all right. I got the message,” Barbara snapped.

  Tom pushed back his chair, glaring at his sister in disgust. Tiger looked from brother to sister, wide-eyed. “Susan,” he said finally, “did you forget we were talking about getting a cat?”

  Chapter 13

  An hour after the kids had left for school, Susan walked into the store, past Lanna, past the stacks of books and crafts, and into her office, where she promptly closed the door. Five minutes later, she emerged and motioned to Lanna at the cash register. “We’re going to have to close for a few minutes,” she said absently.

  “Fine.” Nothing threw Lanna.

  “I need you to drive me somewhere,” Susan said.

  “Fine.” Lanna grabbed her coat. “Your car or mine?”

  “Yours.”

  Susan turned the Closed sign around, walked to the parking lot in silence and gave directions as Lanna started the engine. Lanna’s face carried a smug, relieved look, which no amount of careful lip-biting could hide.

  “Look. I’m not ill,” Susan informed her irritably. “All I’m going to do is spend thirty dollars to find out that I’m not only not ill, but that I seem to be turning into some kind of hypochondriac.”

  “You are as far from being a hypochondriac as anyone I’ve ever met in my life. Look, Susan, you haven’t missed a day of work in four years except for vacations. In my particular scheme of things, I call that kind of virtue an illness.”

  “So cynical,” Susan said wryly.

  “Realistic.”

  “I just hope there’s a pillow under you when you really fall, because I have this terrible feeling you’re going to fall hard.”

  “You came to work this morning looking green,” Lanna commented pleasantly, always eager to steer the subject away from herself.

  And Susan felt green. She was damned tired of feeling green. Once the kids were off to school, she’d felt suddenly so dizzy she could barely stand, and being alone in the house had oddly frightened her. So had driving alone to work. She was worried about Griff, and Barbara had hurt her, and what she had finally told herself was that she needed to…cope better. That seemed to be all it amounted to. And how could anyone cope well when their stomach was turning somersaults on a regular basis?

  “Did you tell your husband?” Lanna questioned as they pulled in to the parking lot of the doctor’s office.

  Susan ignored her. Obviously, she wasn’t about to burden Griff with a bunch of hypochondriac nonsense. For that matter, she thoroughly resented wasting money on a physical examination. T-shirts for Tiger, jewelry for Barbara, popcorn for a year for the teenagers who devoured junk food at all hours of the day and night… “Just go back to work,” she told Lanna.

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “You will not wait for me. You will return to the shop and reopen it. I’ll take a taxi back later.”

  Lanna shifted too fast in response, chugging the car out of the parking lot like a bouncing Jeep. Susan would have smiled if she hadn’t been entering the doctor’s office. The place smelled of alcohol and disinfectant; the walls were white, with an occasional framed print that jarred with violent color. Susan remembered the magazines from the one time she had had bronchitis; undoubtedly, they still carried those latent germs.

  The nurse ushered her into the examining room, all serenity and efficiency.

  “I’m really perfectly all right,” Susan told her.

  “I was just looking at your chart. It’s been ages since you’ve had a complete physical.”

  “I don’t need a complete physical.” The nurse stuck a thermometer in her mouth, then took it out and examined it before resterilizing it. She took Susan’s blood pressure, and then made a sound in her throat that Susan couldn’t interpret. Such dramatics. One could be dying and this nurse would never say so.

  “Please take off all your clothes now, Mrs. Anderson…”

  Which was one of the reasons Susan hated to go to the doctor. Nudity and Griff went together. Nudity and cool examining rooms and strangers simply d
idn’t, and she had the terrible feeling she was going to feel the same way when she was ninety. And Dr. Grey was worse than a stranger. He had delivered her some twenty-eight years before, and had taken far too much for granted ever since.

  “Hi, honey,” he began, and went downhill from there.

  “I’m perfectly healthy,” she told him.

  He nodded, all gray hair and endlessly patient smiles. “You sounded terrified on the phone. You say you’ve had a number of dizzy spells?”

  “No one has dizzy spells nowadays. There is nothing wrong with me. I skipped breakfast one day. And lately maybe I’ve been a little tired…”

  “Lie down, Susan.” His soft blue eyes peered at her over his spectacles, when the first part of the examination was over. “You can relax anytime.”

  The last of the reasons why she hated doctors. Relax—the most popular of orders. She closed her eyes, waiting for pain that never happened, wishing that Griff were with her and at the same time extremely happy that he was not, and feeling miserably sick to her stomach. Dr. Grey redraped the sheet over her less than five minutes later, and his kindly eyes viewed her with a rueful expression.

  “About seven months to go, sweetie. I hope to heaven your husband wants to be present for the delivery, because you’re going to make one hell of a patient.”

  The drugstore was across the street. Vitamins for this, supplements for that. The dizziness and nausea…even Dr. Grey had nothing for that; evidently it just occasionally affected some pregnant women. It would undoubtedly pass in another couple of weeks.

  Pregnant.

  Griff’s baby.

  “There wasn’t the least thing wrong with me,” she told Lanna later, and worked with a daunting speed until closing time. Like a buried burst of energy in her system, elation would suddenly surge forth out of nowhere. She kissed Mr. Riverton when he came in with the mail; she hugged Mrs. Bartholomew for doing a proper stitch on her crocheting. She ate a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and then forgot and later ate another peanut butter sandwich.