Precious Moments

by Suzanne Roberts

  Skiing was the only thing that really seemed to matter to him.

  “If he loved me,” she said quietly, “and I asked him not to, then the problem would be solved, wouldn’t it?” She reached for her scarf. “David, I’d like to leave now. I’d like to get back so I can talk to Thorne.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “If that doesn’t work, you can get your petition ready.”

  It was dusk when they got back. David let her out at the corner, saying he was going to take the horse and rig back to its owner and pay him. She walked through the gathering darkness to the house, then stopped.

  Thorne’s little car was parked in front. There was a light on in the living room, and as she went into the hallway, she saw Thorne sprawled in one of the big chairs.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming back,” he said, standing up to greet her. “The housekeeper invited me in. We’ve just got time to get over there to the party.”

  She began taking off her things. “I’m not going, Thorne.”

  He frowned. “Something wrong?”

  “Yes—a lot of things. I suppose we could begin with Silverlode.”

  “I wondered when you’d get around to that. Look—let’s forget the stupid party. Let’s go to my place instead.”

  She shook her head. “I’m tired and cold and I need some time to think. Not tonight, Thorne.”

  He shrugged. “Even a local hero gets turned down sometimes.”

  “Is that what you want to be? The local hero?” There was a cool edge to her tone.

  He was silent for a second. “Isn’t that what you see me as?”

  His words stunned her. David had implied nearly the same thing earlier—that her feelings were imagined, based on glamour and the idea of danger and excitement.

  “Good night,” she said unsteadily, and she fled up the stairs to her room. Moments later, she heard Thorne’s car start and drive away.

  He had asked her to be his girl. And she had thought that meant he loved her. But he had not told her that, and deep down there was some invisible door he held closed against her, some secret he kept that he would not share with her.

  Perhaps, she thought suddenly, he wants to die!

  And it was that thought, that wild guess, that caused her to dial Thorne’s number at quarter-past four the following morning.

  He sounded somewhat foggy.

  “I called to tell you I’m sorry,” she said. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk—”

  “Talking seems to get us in a lot of trouble. Why don’t we try sign language instead?”

  It was good to hear his voice warming, beginning to tease her. It made her fear ease a little. Perhaps she would be able to talk some sense into him after all. Perhaps he really did care enough about her to listen.

  “Are you going out to practice-run this morning, Thorne?”

  “I planned to sleep in this morning, unless you’d like to come over and cook my breakfast.”

  “I have to go to work. I want to talk to you—”

  “I thought we agreed not to do that.”

  She heard the banging sound of David, downstairs in the kitchen. He was up very early.

  “Then,” she said slowly, “I guess I shouldn’t see you again.” Her own words surprised her. “Because I’m tired of all the parties and the people who call here to try to get me to drag you off to some party they’re giving. I’m tired of—of dreading what you’re going to do. I should know better than a lot of people—they wanted my cousin to become their darling, too, but he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he should have,” Thorne said dryly. “There’s nothing particularly wrong with the eat, drink and be merry life-style, Jamie. Except that people don’t want to get up early.”

  From downstairs came the loud sound of a clattering pan and then David’s loud “Damn!”

  “I have to go, Thorne. I just wanted you to know I wasn’t avoiding you last night. And I’m willing to talk about us. If,” she said quietly, “there really is an Us.”

  She hung up, feeling strangely disappointed. Thorne would call her or come by, she felt certain, and yet she felt so unsure of his real feelings that even if he did call and want to see her, nothing would change most likely.

  She found David in the kitchen, reading over some pages and drinking coffee.

  “It’s instant,” he told her. “I gave up after I dropped the soup pot on my foot when I was looking for Emma’s coffeepot.”

  “I’ll fix you something to eat,” she told him.

  Jamie could feel him watching her as she moved about the kitchen. It was perhaps the least attractive room in the old house, and yet the nicest. For all her faults, Emma seemed capable of making any place where her employer lived cozy and comfortable, and this house was no exception.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” She got out a cup and saucer from the cupboard.

  “I heard you up and about early, so I suppose you’ve called him. Did you?”

  Her face flushed. “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

  “And?”

  “He doesn’t—want to talk. He said something about knowing that sooner or later I’d get upset about Silverlode.”

  David began gathering up his papers. “Remember what I told you: if you can’t talk him into giving up on this suicide scheme, I’ll try to stop him legally. But there isn’t much time.”

  Time went very slowly that day. She’d had only snatches of sleep the night before; she was nervous and time seemed to crawl by as she typed. David worked until only about ten that morning; he said he had business to take care of and left before their usual shared lunch.

  Emma surprised Jamie when she tapped on the door and then came in without the usual lunch tray.

  “It’s my day off,” she announced. “There’s plenty to eat.”

  “Oh—thank you, Emma. Please don’t let me spoil your day—I’ll be fine.”

  “You won’t.” She looked at Jamie with unfriendly eyes. “Someone is waiting to see you. I told her I’d see if you could break away from your work.”

  “Her?”

  “Rhonda Miles. She’s in the living room.”

  It would seem that Rhonda was bolder than any of the others. She came herself instead of phoning to ask Jamie to bring Thorne to some party!

  Rhonda sat in David’s favorite chair, looking stunning. Her coppery hair was pulled back from her lovely face, and as always she wore clothes that were casual, yet chic and expensive-looking.

  “Actually,” she said, “I came to see David.”

  “He’s gone to town,” Jamie told her. “I’ll be glad to—”

  “Do you mind if I stay a moment?”

  “Of course not.” Jamie sat in a chair opposite Rhonda, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. “Would you like something? Emma’s leaving, but I can—”

  “No, thank you. All I really want is to ask you something.” She was reaching through her large purse; she came up with a cigarette and lit it. She’s uncomfortable, being near me, Jamie thought. More so than I am here with her.

  Rhonda looked at her steadily through the haze of smoke; her gray-silver eyes were decidedly unfriendly.

  “I came here to ask David if he’d like to go to Vegas with a party of people. It’s to be a sort of birthday party for him.”

  “But you don’t need me to—”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t want to come without you. I thought I might persuade you to talk to him. It might be good for him to get away.” She looked away from Jamie. “I think it’s time to see if he’s really over Margo.”

  You mean, thought Jamie, you want to see if he might by any chance be in love with you!

  And suddenly she felt very sorry for this beautiful young woman, who seemed to have it all, everything, all the gifts—youth, great beauty, uncountable money, a sleek car parked out in front. The chilly eyes were only masks; Jamie sensed a real feeling, and she recognized it, perhaps because she felt so uncertain abo
ut Thorne. Even beautiful, wealthy girls like this one could love a man and feel he really didn’t care very much one way or the other.

  Was that how Thorne felt about her?

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask David himself,” Jamie told her, wishing this hadn’t been put upon her. “He’ll be back—”

  “Are you in love with David by any chance?”

  Jamie looked back at her evenly. “Mr. Saunders is my employer, nothing more.”

  “Because if you are, if you’re only using Thorne as a means of making David Saunders notice you, let me tell you right here and now—it won’t work. Oh, he might get excited about you because you’ve got him working again, but that will fade. He’ll sell this book and people will pat him on the back and before long he’ll settle into just the kind of life he wants—his life with Margo.”

  “Margo! But David’s wife is—”

  “Of course Margo’s dead. But not for David. He may not talk about her a lot but you can bet he thinks of her most of the time. He’ll never find anyone to replace his perfect wife.” She ground out her cigarette. “You see, this way he doesn’t have to bother to love anyone. And if he doesn’t love, he won’t get hurt.”

  “Miss Miles,” Jamie said carefully, “don’t you understand that it isn’t up to me to change that? I’m not the one who loves David.” She took a small breath, feeling she shouldn’t say any more. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to help me scramble up some lunch?”

  For a brief instant, the cold eyes wavered. There was a quick, fleeting second when Jamie was sure Rhonda wanted to stay, to talk, perhaps even to confide in her.

  “Thank you, no. But please tell David about the Vegas trip—I’m sure you can convince him he needs a few days off from his book.” She picked up her purse. “Thorne’s coming, of course. Hasn’t he told you?”

  “No.” Jamie felt her heart start to beat harder. “He—didn’t mention it.”

  “Someone should have warned you, dear.” The silver eyes were ice. “When Thorne begins to tire of one of his girls, he lets her down ever so gently.”

  EIGHT

  She had become as if she were two persons, the capable young secretary who expertly and carefully did her work for David, fixed his breakfast and sometimes his tea, and saved her more-than-generous salary, for the most part. David liked her; there was every reason to believe he’d want to keep her on, since they got along so well and he seemed pleased with her work.

  So in a sense, her life could go along very smoothly—traveling with David, being his friend, not having to worry anymore about whether or not she should consider marrying him if he should ever ask her. She could and probably would remain single, should she make up her mind to stop being foolish over Thorne Gundersen.

  Then, there was this other side of her, this new and very frightening side that showed itself when Rhonda made her nasty remark. Rhonda had left rather quickly after that, all to the good, since Jamie had stood there shaken and trying hard not to show what she couldn’t help feeling.

  David came back for lunch, peeking into the study where Jamie had gone back to her work.

  “You don’t spell very well, do you?”

  He grinned. “I’m fixing lunch for us today. Omelets. I stopped in town and got some very nice squid.”

  She stood up, stretching. He looked unusually happy and confident.

  “I’ve finished everything you left for me. And, oh, yes—you had a visitor.”

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he told her. “A visitor?”

  “Miss Miles came by. She wants you to go to Las Vegas.”

  “Is she going?”

  “Of course. She’s planning the whole thing around your birthday.” She picked up an apple from the kitchen table. “I didn’t know your birthday was coming up. I’ll have to hurry with your present.”

  “I’m reading your very sweet little mind,” he told her, beginning to crack what seemed to Jamie to be an endless amount of eggs into a dish. “You’re wondering how ancient I am and you’re about to try to talk me into going to Vegas. Not, let me add, because you want to go yourself, but because you want me to spend some time with the red-haired Rhonda. Very transparent, my dear. Clear as a summer’s day.”

  She looked at him. He had an uncanny way of knowing what she was thinking, or worrying about. And a very nice way of somehow making her feel that it was all going to be fine.

  Even though she’d had a horrible dream the night before, a nightmare. It had only lasted a second, two or three at the most, but she’d seen someone from afar, looking down from some sort of very high place, and she’d seen Thorne, racing down Silverlode like a free bird, and then, she’d known he was going to fall, to go down like a wounded eagle, and she couldn’t bear it so her dream blanked out. “I’m going to talk to Thorne tonight,” she told David. “I’m going to do what I can to stop him.” She watched him as he cheerfully began beating the eggs. “David—you’ve something up your sleeve, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry much longer about your friend’s going down Silverlode. I’ve been very busy this morning.”

  “David—what—”

  “I’m going to stop him cold, that’s what.”

  “But how?”

  He smiled at her like a sly cat. “By virtue of my golden tongue.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to give a lecture, my dear.” He flipped the omelet over and patted it gently. “I’m going to rent a hall and tell everybody in town that if Gundersen dies like all the others, his blood is going to be on their hands. Then, I’m going to tell them that I’m announcing the theme of my novel and my announcement is going to scare the hell out of them. Because I’m going to make every one of those people feel like a murderer.”

  He meant it. Up until now the theme of his book had been kept a secret from the press and his public, those loyal fans of his who always waited to read his novels, who adored the movies made of them and who looked upon him as a kind of brittle, brilliant jewel pointing an accusing finger at life. But now he was going to let the secret come out. Perfect timing, he told her.

  She felt her heart lighten. Time was going to be on her side. If Thorne couldn’t ski Silverlode, there might be time for him to consider giving it up entirely, finding another way of living his life altogether.

  But before she could think about sharing that with him, she had to know if, as Rhonda had implied, she was only another one of the many, many girls Thorne had managed to have fall in love with him.

  “There,” David said after a while, “isn’t it beautiful?”

  It was, surprisingly. David’s manner was so confident and cheerful that she couldn’t help but feel he’d solved the problem of saving Thorne’s life—for the time being, at least.

  But the other problem still remained. What was his, Thorne’s, real feeling for her?

  Thorne called her at seven; his voice was contrite.

  “It’s a very nice night on the mountain,” he told her. “Would you like to go and see?”

  “Can we talk? Please? Will you listen to me and try to understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I’ll listen.”

  But he didn’t say he’d do anything except what he’d been planning to do all along: make it down the killer Silverlode.

  He took her into his arms as soon as she opened the front door for him.

  “You’re right about the parties. Let’s forget all about them.” He kissed her again. “Besides, I want to spend as much time alone with you as I can.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Before what, Thorne?”

  It seemed to her that she’d hit target. He quickly got her out the front door, down to the curb and into his car. As they pulled away, Jamie thought she saw David watching from an upstairs window. She turned to Thorne.

  “I’d like to walk someplace, if you don’t mind.”

  The car shot forward. “Not here,” he told her, his hand warmly finding hers.
Jamie felt her heart race at his touch. “Let’s go on up the mountain road.”

  It was beautiful; crystal-clear stars bright in a black sky, the mountains covered with snow, trees dressed in its whiteness. The moon was high and very bright, with just a part of its face hidden. Jamie leaned her head back and sighed.

  “It’s so beautiful here—whenever I think of going home I only have to walk down this road and look around me. The truth is, I’m not sure I ever want to leave, even though it’s very hard to feel at home here.”

  He parked the car just off the road, on a small overlook that showed them majestic mountains and the twinkling lights from houses in town and outside. “I’ve never felt at home anyplace,” he told her. “You get used to the feeling. Warm enough?”

  “I’m fine.” She snuggled under his arm. She felt so good with him, so right with him; it was as if she’d been fashioned to be just tall enough for this, to fit under his protective arm, to look up into his face; it was as if she’d been made for this man, her body proportioned to suit his.

  They walked a long way, stopping once to break frozen, glittering ice off a nearby tree. When it began to get slick, they turned and walked back to the overlook and the car.

  In the car, after starting it and turning on the heater, he turned to look at her. “Will you stay with me tonight, Jamie?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “I want to,” she said steadily, “but first—I want to talk to you.”

  Oddly enough, she thought of the shattered glass, the glass that had been strewn about on the floor that time she was here, and then later, replaced. For some reason, she thought of that and the thought somehow bothered her.

  “Thorne?” She sipped the drink he’d fixed her. Warming and syrupy sweet, with the alcohol buried somewhere in it. She decided not to finish it; she didn’t want to be hazy about what she felt or said tonight. Not a bit of it.