Precious Moments

by Suzanne Roberts

  “You’re a very strange girl,” he said quietly. “You have an uncanny way of making me feel as if I’m missing something very important. I simply haven’t been to Lemoine because—” he shrugged. “I suppose because I don’t know what I’d do with myself there. I couldn’t ski, so I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

  “Well, I know what I’d do,” she told him, getting quite comfortable, sitting close to him. “I’d walk. I’d walk through the vineyards and I’d reach out and—touch the grapes. I’ve always wanted to do that.” She put down her glass. “My grandmother used to talk about the vineyards. She was from Paris.”

  There was a small silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She felt relaxed, warm, delightful. Moments later, when the sound of throbbing, somehow lonely music filled the room, she really wasn’t surprised. So far, the night had been unreal, dreamlike, such a change from her usual life-style that she almost felt as if she were someone else, some different, vibrant, exciting girl who had been given a kind of power she’d never had before.

  Thorne’s arm had gone around her. Then, slowly, he bent his body closer to hers, drawing her close to him. Her heart was pounding against his chest. As he kissed her, a wave of desire swept over her with such intensity that she trembled. She was lying on the rug; Thorne’s mouth sought hers again—

  “The phone,” she said suddenly. “Thorne, the phone is ringing.”

  “Damn the phone,” he said in a husky voice. “Jamie—”

  She struggled to sit up. “Please answer it.” She turned her face away from his. There were a thousand tumbled emotions churning around inside her.

  “I’ll get rid of them,” he told her, getting up. She heard his voice, there across the room; there was a long pause, and when she sat all the way up and looked at Thorne, she saw that he was holding the phone far away from his ear.

  There was the faint sound of someone yelling on the other end of the wire.

  Finally, Thorne laid down the phone. His face was flushed, whether from the passion of a moment before or from new anger, she couldn’t tell.

  “This,” he said evenly, “is your boss. Mr. David Saunders wants it known that if I don’t deliver you safe and sound to his house within the next ten minutes, he’s going to come up here and blow the top of my head off!”

  FIVE

  It was, of course, ridiculous for David to try to force her to leave this way, but Jamie was somehow glad for his wild, irate phone call. It gave her a chance to think straight, or try to; around Thorne, that was almost impossible.

  She went over to the phone and gently took it from the furious Thorne.

  “David? I’m perfectly well and I’ll be along very soon, I promise. You needn’t play Dutch uncle because there’s—absolutely nothing wrong going on here.” She didn’t look at Thorne.

  “Are you saying I should drive on back to my house and leave you in the clutches of that womanizer?” David’s tone was half-teasing, half-serious. It wasn’t difficult, however, for Jamie to sense that he was both angry and worried about her having left the party with someone else.

  “I’m saying I’m just fine and I hope I haven’t offended you by leaving your friend’s house.”

  “Rhonda is no friend of mine, dear. We despise each other. The point is, I don’t think it’s quite time for you to be adopted by one of the men in Rhonda’s little world. I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “I should have known it would happen, once I let them get a look at you. Maybe we ought to have a nice, quiet talk, the three of us.”

  “David—I’m fine, honestly!” She was beginning to feel a bit embarrassed, with Thorne standing there looking angry and annoyed, right by her elbow.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure, David. Good night.”

  “Well,” he said reluctantly, “good night, then.”

  The mood, she saw at once, was totally ruined. Thorne went over to the bar and poured himself a drink.

  “Shall I take you home at once, Jamie, or would you care for one of these?” He held out his glass, then drained it. It bothered her, seeing him drink; she remembered how her cousin had always said it was a lethal combination—a ski run and alcohol.

  “I’m in no particular hurry,” she said, as pleasantly as she could. “It’s very lovely here.”

  Their eyes met; they smiled and he came quickly over to her.

  “Come on,” he told her, all the anger gone from his handsome face, “sit by the fire.” They settled themselves on pillows strewn about on the floor; Jamie lay on her stomach, facing the fire, her small face propped on her hands.

  “Why do you do it, Thorne?”

  He was close beside her, there on the floor. “Do what? Ski?”

  “Ski the way you do. I never totally understood my cousin’s passion for it—it was something he never tried to explain to me. But I imagine it’s something that one doesn’t like to—talk about.” She looked at his quiet face, there close beside hers. In the softness of the firelight, he suddenly looked very much like a small, lonely boy. Jamie ached to put her arms around him, to feel his head against her breast.

  The urge frightened and disturbed her. She got to her feet and went over to the window, where Ajax stared silently back at her, cold, deadly.

  “The place where young men die,” she said quietly. Then she turned to face Thorne. “Have you thought about the fact that you may only have days to live? That you might not make it down Silverlode Run, that you might die there like my cousin did?” Her voice was soft, her emotions at that moment were not clearly defined. Later, later she would think about this night with Thorne, think about what it meant in terms of her own life.

  “Of course I’ve thought about that.” He shrugged. “It’s something I want to do, that’s all.” He held out his hand. “Come back and sit by me, Jamie. I want to talk about you.”

  “I think,” she said carefully, “I’d better leave. It isn’t because of David’s call—it’s—”

  “Of course it’s because of David’s call. You’re afraid of me now, and you weren’t before.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, her chin rising.

  “Then you’ll come again?”

  “Of course.”

  He let her out in front of David’s house; they did not kiss but the feeling of wanting to was so real that, upon finding her house key and being let in by Thorne, Jamie actually felt weak, spent, drained, as she slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  “Well,” a voice said from the darkness below, “you took your sweet time.” He switched on the lights and she turned to face David, who stood, wearing his smoking jacket, in the downstairs hallway. “Are you all right, Jamie? You look—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, pushing back her hair. “Just tired.”

  He frowned. “Something is changing, isn’t it?”

  He had put it very well. Yes, something was changing—she had never before experienced such overpowering emotions as she had felt when she was close to Thorne.

  “Good night,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning, David.”

  His eyes looked very kind. “Sleep late if you like. Perhaps we’ll find a moment to talk. If you don’t mind Dutch uncles, that is.”

  She slept a dreamless sleep, waking up to winter sunlight spread about the room and the delicious aroma of frying bacon and perking coffee. Jamie stretched, arms over her head; suddenly she felt absolutely marvelous. Thorne was just as excited by her as she was by him, just as interested in being with her as she was with him. She shut her eyes. Now what? Where do we go from here?

  There was a soft tap at the door and before Jamie could say a word, David’s housekeeper came in carrying a tray. There was a winter rose in a slender silver vase, bacon and toast under a china dome, and thick blackberry jam, imported from France, in a cut-glass jar.

  In short, it was a very elegant breakfast, but with a sudden sense of shock, Jamie glanced at her bedside clock and leaped out of bed. “It’s quar
ter-past ten!” She’d be fired—David would be furious!

  “Relax,” the housekeeper said kindly, “Mr. Saunders told me to tell you to take the complete morning off. He said he had plenty to do and you could catch up on the typing by working this evening.” She poured coffee from the silver pot. “Work,” she said, “is better than anything else. He said you’d understand his meanin’.”

  “I think,” Jamie said grimly, “I’d better get on down to his study.” She gulped the coffee hastily. “It was a lovely tray, and I’m sorry I can’t stay to enjoy it, honestly.” She was heading for the shower.

  Maybe David had given her time off, but she felt certain he was annoyed, perhaps even angry with her, about the night before.

  It would be best to get things settled between them at once.

  She found him behind his desk, typing away furiously. Knowing better than to disturb his working moments, Jamie went across the room, opened the window a bit and let the shades up enough to allow some natural light to come into the somewhat messy room.

  “Why aren’t you up there sleeping your head off?” He glared at her from over his amber-colored glasses. “Didn’t you know I gave you the morning off?”

  She smiled. She somehow felt relaxed around this man; her head and heart stayed quite calm, unlike the way they reacted when she was with Thorne Gundersen.

  “I thought we’d best get it over with,” she told him, sitting behind her desk. “Are you angry with me?”

  He let his breath out. “No. But I am worried. However,” he told her, “this is neither the time nor the place to discuss things.”

  “David, there’s nothing to discuss!”

  He poured coffee from the electric pot, taking her a cup. His brown eyes were candid, there behind the reading glasses.

  “Are you telling me to mind my own bloody business, by any remote chance, Jamie?”

  She felt her face flush. She looked up at him, then down at her steaming cup of coffee. “Yes,” she said finally, “I suppose in a way—I am.”

  “Very well, then,” he said crisply, “I’ll say nothing more about any of this.” He was back at his typewriter when he looked at her again. “When you want a detailed rundown on what makes your new boyfriend behave as he does, let me know.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Jamie said a bit icily, “dream of listening to any gossip about Thorne.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The typewriter began clacking away. Jamie, now beginning to wish she’d taken advantage of David’s offer to remain upstairs in bed until noon, began retyping some of yesterday’s script, but even though this was only the second read-through of the chapter and she loved the book—she found her mind wandering.

  She had asked Thorne last night why. Why he wanted to conquer Ajax—what made him feel as he did. And he had dismissed her question, saying he wanted instead to talk about her.

  She mentally shook her head, trying to get all thoughts of Thorne to leave. Then, concentrating on the work before her, she allowed her mind to be charmed and interested in David’s book.

  Time went so quickly that the sudden appearance of the housekeeper with a food tray surprised her.

  “It looks very nice,” David said, “but I’d like to take you out to lunch today, Jamie.” He was putting the cover on his typewriter. “I know a charming place halfway up a mountain. The cooking is very French and very gourmet. Want to?”

  She glanced at the phone. “I—I turned down the most lovely breakfast tray this morning,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right, turning down the lunch tray, too. Why don’t we eat here?”

  “One might almost think the lady awaits the ringing of the phone,” he said dryly. “Very well, then. But let’s have some wine to go with things.”

  Jamie drank buttermilk, but David’s voice got warmer and his tone more inspired as he sipped the dry white wine and ate his fish.

  “I’ve been thinking in terms of another book,” he said, “something about living. Life; that would be my message.”

  “Sounds interesting.” She sat across the small, somewhat wobbly table from him. Outside, it had begun to snow; flakes pressed against the long windows of the house, white and soft. What, she wondered, was Thorne doing at this very moment? Was he perhaps still asleep in that house up there on the mountain? Or was he out on the run, practicing for the big event?

  A sudden chill went over her. David was looking at her with dark, serious eyes.

  “Are you in love with living, Jamie?”

  “Of course.” She moved in her chair. “Of course I am.”

  He was watching her. “Was your grandmother’s name spelled Jamais by any chance?”

  “Why—yes.”

  “And you were named for her?”

  She leaned forward. “How did you know?”

  David smiled. “I just had a hunch, that’s all. You like to talk about her, you know, about her life in Paris, things like that. Was she a great beauty?”

  “Grandmother was—yes, I suppose you could say she was very beautiful. But,” Jamie said softly, “she was much more than just that.”

  David’s eyes were watching her. “Tell me about her. Tell me her flaw.”

  Jamie looked up. “Flaw? I don’t think she had any.” She saw the intentness in his eyes. “David, do you mind if I tell you I’m very well aware of what you’re doing?” She smiled fondly at him. “I’ve copied enough of your manuscript to recognize how clever you are at getting people to trap themselves into saying words they don’t mean to say.”

  “Which is another way of saying I have an uncanny way of getting people to tell the truth.”

  Her face flushed. Suddenly she felt sure this conversation had something to do with her behavior the night before.

  “I finished that chapter,” she told him. “I’ll work as late as you want me to, in order to make up for—”

  “Was your grandmother a romantic, Jamie? Would you say she was that? Did she leave Paris because a man wanted her to by any chance?”

  “Yes,” Jamie said, suddenly annoyed, “all right—she was probably very romantic. But Frenchwomen are, you know.”

  He smiled. “On the contrary, most of those ladies are very businesslike about marriage. So your darling grandmother was different, just as you, little one, are different.” His voice was quiet. “You are one of those unfortunates who is capable of a very deep and lasting love affair. And because you are that—you’re very likely to get hurt very badly. I’d like to prevent that, if I can.”

  “David,” she said uncomfortably, “please—will you stop worrying about me?” She took a small breath. “I promise you—I won’t neglect my work again, the way I did by oversleeping this morning. I’m very sorry about that and it won’t happen again.”

  He passed her a plate of buttered scones. “Then you don’t want an astute, intelligent writer’s insight into the young man you seem to be so taken with?”

  “No,” Jamie said, “I don’t.”

  Which of course was not true in the least. Jamie very badly wanted to know about Thorne’s drive, his reasons for risking his life so easily, so offhandedly. But she wanted to learn those reasons from Thorne himself.

  It was twilight when she finished her work for the day. This was always a special time of day; work was put aside and very often Jamie and David sat together having a quiet drink, chatting about his work or about various things. The light in the room would be amber and shadows would appear and leap, brought into view because of the burning logs in the fireplace. Jamie loved to sit comfortably in this room and watch lights go on up on the mountainside.

  She suddenly realized that from the window to her right she would be able to see lights go on at Thorne’s place, up the mountain.

  “You’re very pensive,” David said from behind her. “Thoughtful, I might say. I’ve been sitting here most of the day trying to get some words together in my head.”

  There was a sudden shower of light in that house where Thorne lived. Standing a
t the window, Jamie felt a sudden chill go through her. He hasn’t called today. I thought—I really thought he would. She felt suddenly lonely.

  “I said I’m trying to get some very important words together in my head.” David’s voice came from behind her.

  “Oh—sorry.” She turned around to face him. “You mean you’re thinking of tomorrow’s chapter just now?” She accepted the drink he handed her, something sweet and only vaguely tasting of alcohol. “I thought you said you never worry about tomorrow’s work today.”

  “I’m not,” David said, “talking about my book. I’m talking about asking you to go with me on a sort of trip.”

  Her eyes widened. “Trip? You mean—vacation?”

  “Now wait,” he said hastily, “I know it doesn’t sound exactly decent, but it is, I assure you.” He put down his drink. “I’d like to finish my book in Jamaica.”

  “Jamaica!”

  He seemed very serious about it. “I’ve a place there; I often go there when I’m really deeply involved with a book. Naturally,” he said, his back to her now as he began putting crackers and cheese onto a plate, “I’d want you with me. I’ve become very dependent on you, as I’m sure you know by now.” He sounded matter-of-fact, even businesslike.

  “David—I—I honestly don’t know.” She felt uneasy, vaguely frightened, as if some monumental choice had been handed to her. “If you’re really deadly serious about leaving Aspen and going to Jamaica, I’ll have to think about it.”

  He came over and, as a father or brother might, gently opened her mouth and popped a bit of cheese in. “Will you consider it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  But later in her room, soaking in a hot tub, she began to relax. Her feelings about Thorne bothered her; it was not like her to feel such emotions so quickly. Jamie had been in love before, twice, in fact, although she didn’t really count the first time because she had been seventeen and had very badly wanted to fall in love with someone.

  The second time had been a period in her life when she simply had not felt at all like herself. She had suddenly become radiant, cried a lot, mooned about the house, as her mother put it, and lost weight when the boy unexpectedly joined the Navy and was sent at once to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center near Chicago.