by Modean Moon
“Stop it!”
He clenched the steering wheel. What idiot had presented it to her as an accomplished fact? He eased his grip and slumped back against the seat. There was probably a great deal of truth in the snippets of venom Ginnie tossed at him.
“Does it bother you?” he asked, needing her answer. “Being on display?”
“Yes! When I don’t know what’s going on and I’m expected to act as though I do.”
She sighed and leaned against the seat, easing her temples with her fingers. “I can play games, Neil. Not well, and I don’t like to, but I can. If I know the rules.”
He felt the silence in the car as he pretended to concentrate on traffic. He’d never considered that she wouldn’t be pleased by his news. He’d never considered that she wouldn’t feel the same thrill at the challenge facing him.
He stole a glance at her. Huddled as she was, she looked tired. And defenseless.
“When did you decide you wanted to go into politics?” she asked.
She wasn’t sniping at him now, but her hands still covered her face and he couldn’t see her expression.
“A long time ago,” he admitted finally. “Before law school.”
“You never mentioned it to me.”
He heard the hurt in her voice, in spite of her effort to hide it. It was something he’d heard too often in the past year not to recognize.
He expelled his breath and negotiated a left turn much too fast. “It didn’t seem necessary to postmortem something that was never going to happen.”
“Why, Neil?” He felt the soft caress of her hand on his shoulder. “Why wasn’t it going to happen?”
He took one hand from the wheel and folded it over hers. Then he slid his arm around her and drew her to his side. She came, not melting, soft and loving as he wished, but she came, and he held her close while he tried to explain what he would have told her long before, had there been a reason for dredging up his disappointments.
“My major in college was political science,” he told her. He felt her tensing and eased his hand along her arm.
“My father was the youngest judge ever elected to the Arkansas Supreme Court, and during my formative years, until he died, he made me aware of what the law should be, of what the law could be. And I managed to decide that my reason for being here was to make the world a better place. Through the law. It’s not a unique idea. There are countless studious young men on campuses all over the world who feel the same way.
“But you can’t do that with a bachelor’s degree in political science, and you can’t do it with a brand-new Juris Doctor in law, either. Even to be in a position to start to do something, you have to have experience, and contacts, and money, and a name. I had to work with the system, until I could get into the system.
“The Flannagans’ tragedy was what convinced me that the time was right to make my first bid for election. They were clients of mine, a nice substantial middle-aged couple who went to church every Sunday, who, to my knowledge, never even got a parking ticket, who voted in each election and paid their taxes honestly, and who took great pride in their children. They had two—a daughter, Carole, in college at Fayetteville, and a son, Mickey, still in middle school.
“Carole came home early one Friday, while her parents were still at work, and found Mickey smoking a marijuana cigarette. She knew what it was.”
He laughed bitterly, “Are there any kids today who haven’t at least seen one? And he was already high enough so that when she asked him where he got it, he told her. A friend of his had a regular connection.
“He was thirteen, Ginnie, thirteen, and marijuana was readily available to him. Carole wanted him to put the cigarette down, put it out, flush it, but when she tried to take it from him, he went wild. She ran next door and called her father, who called an ambulance, who called the police, They all got there about the same time, but by then Mickey was unrestrainable. One of the policemen was little more than a rookie. He pulled his gun, and Mickey tried to take it away from him.
“In the struggle, the gun went off, and Mickey was killed.”
They were nearing their house, but he turned down a side street, prolonging, if only for a few more minutes, their time alone.
“When the authorities analyzed the marijuana remaining in the cigarette, they found that it had been liberally laced with PCP, angel dust, and when Mickey’s parents searched his room they found a bag, one that he had once kept marbles in, full of pills.
“And I had a cause. Get the drugs out of our schools. Keep our children safe. I decided to run for prosecuting attorney. It was the worst possible time I could have chosen.”
Was now the time to talk about Ann? Ginnie had never asked, although he’d sensed at moments that she wanted to know more than the brief sketch of his marriage he’d given her.
“Why?” she asked.
He felt her yielding to him, her head against his shoulder, her hand sliding across his waist. Caught in the confinement of his arms, she was holding him.
“Ann,” he said. He waited for her withdrawal, felt it beginning, and then felt her sigh back against him. He slid his hand to her hip and turned his head so that he could rub his jaw against the softness of her hair. He didn’t want to bring Ann into Ginnie’s life, but she was here already, and without this part the story made no sense.
“We were already having problems,” he began, “had been since before Todd was born...” No. He wouldn’t bring Ann into the car with them. Fool of Pulaski County, that’s what he had been then. Ann had seen to that. Or perhaps he, with his zealousness, had made it so. Whatever the reason, it had taken a long time to rebuild his sense of self-worth, if, in fact, he had.
“Things came to a head early in the campaign.” It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could say. He wouldn’t, couldn’t dredge all of that up and throw it in front of Ginnie. Not now. Maybe not ever. “I withdrew from the race. A short time later, I divorced her.”
Ginnie lifted her head from his shoulder, and he felt the comfort of her arms being taken from him. He tried to hold her to him, but she resisted, leaning away from him, looking at him.
“That’s it?” she asked tightly. “You gave up a lifelong dream because of a fight with your wife, and then you put the woman out of your life?”
“Not quite,” he said, his voice as tight as hers.
“No, I suppose not.” She turned to face the window. “Your dream is still with you. Is that story a warning for me, Neil? If I oppose the dream, will you send me away, too?”
“Ginnie—” Why couldn’t she trust him, accept on faith that he loved her, without making him expose the anger, the sense of betrayal, the impotence he had felt?
“You’re going to miss our turn,” she said flatly.
He allowed himself the luxury of a stream of oaths as he negotiated the turn and slid to a stop beside the sitter’s car. He turned to Ginnie, but she jerked the door open and was halfway across the lawn before he caught her. He touched her shoulder. She shrugged away from him, fumbling for her keys.
“All right,” he said. “If that’s the way you want it.” He’d be damned before he’d beg her to understand.
The sitter was collapsed in the club chair in front of the television when Ginnie entered the living room, and looked as exhausted as Ginnie felt. She fixed her smile in place.
“A hard night, Mrs. Stemmons?” she asked pleasantly as the woman stood up.
“Not too bad, Mrs. Kendrick,” she said, and laughed softly.
“Is Todd asleep?”
“I think so. He took two sandwiches and a bag of chips to his room about an hour ago, and I haven’t heard anything from him since.”
The dog raised his head, sniffing to identify the newcomers and then settled back comfortably in front of the couch.
“Did he take Charlie out?” Ginnie asked.
Mrs. Stemmons shook her head. “No, and I haven’t had the heart to disturb the poor old fellow.”
Ginnie hea
rd Neil behind her. He would take care of paying the woman and seeing her to her car. “Thank you for coming this evening,” she said, reaching for Charlie’s collar.
She heard Neil speaking to the sitter as she led the dog from the room. Charlie could find the path on his own, but she needed some action to occupy her, and the dog responded gratefully to each small attention.
She led him to the back door, let him out into the fenced yard and stood quietly in the darkened kitchen. The light above the range illuminated only a small area, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. The light glowed on the coffeepot. She looked around hollowly. Her grandmother would have been proud of this kitchen. Somehow she had managed to measure a woman’s success by her kitchen. This one was immaculate. It was efficient. It was tasteful. A Donna Reed kitchen, Ginnie thought bitterly. One that Harriet Nelson wouldn’t be ashamed of. One in which Beaver Cleaver’s mother could happily dispense coffee and platitudes. An old Mouseketeer rerun flitted across her memory, Annette and Jimmy singing “You Never Can Be Beautiful Beside a Dirty Sink.”
Well, her sink wasn’t dirty, but she didn’t feel beautiful, not now. And she didn’t feel successful, at least not in the one area that mattered. She choked back a sob. “Oh, Neil.”
She reached into the cabinet for a cup, something, anything to do, and when she heard the kitchen door whisper open, she reached for a second one. She stood with her back to the room, every sense attuned to him as he came closer, every nerve throbbing as he stood behind her. She felt tears on her cheeks, and when he took her arms in his hands, she clutched the counter.
“What are we doing to ourselves?” she moaned in a broken voice.
“Ginnie.” His voice caressed her as he turned her to him.
She let herself be drawn into the protection of his arms. If only she had the strength he had, if only she weren’t so unsure of herself, then perhaps she could demand that they finish the talk only started in the car, but she didn’t, and she wasn’t. She slid her arms around him, under his jacket, loving the play of his muscles beneath her hands, the crush of his chest against her breasts as he kissed the tears from her cheeks.
And then it wasn’t protection he was offering, or comfort. It was more, much more, as his lips moved across her face, tantalizing but avoiding her mouth, to her throat, to the swell of her breast barely visible in the starkly cut silk.
She heard the rasp of his breath and the thud of his heartbeat in the silence, matching hers, singing with hers, as he pressed her against the cabinet, following her, as at last he claimed her mouth with a possession that stole her breath from her and deprived her of what strength she had. She moved into his embrace, the hard ridges and planes of his body a wall against which she must cling, matching the deepening aggression of his kiss as she felt his hand sliding to her breast, cupping it. She melted against him, feeding on the love he offered. He was her life, her spirit, her reason for being.
The overhead light stunned her into awareness. Neil released her and stepped back so quickly she had to grab the counter for support.
“I’m hungry.” Todd stood in the doorway, grinning.
Ginnie turned to the counter, trying to hide her flushed face and trembling hands from the boy. She poured coffee, almost, but not quite, managing not to spill it.
“You look super, Dad. How did it go tonight?”
She heard their voices behind her, soft, easy, conspiratorial, but the words wouldn’t penetrate her numbed mind. No time. They never had any time, any privacy.
“I’m hungry, Ginnie.” Those words penetrated. Two sandwiches, two, Mrs. Stemmons had said, and a bag of chips.
“There’s the refrigerator, Todd.” She spoke more sharply than she had intended, but couldn’t stop herself, “I’m sure you can find something.”
“Ginnie!” She heard Neil’s indrawn breath before he spoke and knew that his shock was not at what she had said so much as the way she had said it. Why shouldn’t he be shocked by her tone? She was.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, aborted passion, and anger, and frustration thickening her voice. “I’m...tired. Will you please let Charlie back in the house? I’m going to bed.”
She couldn’t look at Neil, but Todd’s eyes caught hers as she stepped past him. They carried a smile, secretive and meant only for her. He knew what he had done, and he knew that she was aware of it. She ought to stay and defend herself, if with nothing but her presence, but she didn’t want to have to defend herself. She wanted Neil to see past Todd’s game playing, for him to defend her, for him to send Todd to his room, but instead he was angry with her. Well, she still had some pride. Neither of them would be able to read her defeat in the way she walked from the room.
She was in bed when Neil entered the bedroom, almost to the edge of her side of the king-size mattress. She had opened the draperies to the balcony doors and moonlight bathed the room. She wasn’t asleep, she was too tense for that, but if she wanted to pretend, he wouldn’t disturb her.
He undressed in the darkened room, glancing at her when his movements brought him near. She was so small and so — so damned proud, and right now, in her silent pride, she seemed younger and more defenseless than Todd. He wanted to go to her and hold her and see that nothing ever hurt her again.
He stubbed his toe in the dark and muttered an expletive.
And he wanted her to hold him, to show him with more than words that she did love him. That moment in the car had been precious for its rarity. Couldn’t she see that he needed her to reach out to him? He sighed as he sank onto the bed, near the edge of his side of the mattress. Couldn’t she see that he needed her support in the work facing him or the reasons for doing it dimmed to drudgery? Couldn’t she see that this constant bickering between the two people he loved most was pulling him as no man should ever be pulled?
Her life, her spirit, her reason for being, Ginnie thought bitterly. Neil’s tension communicated itself to her across the distance of the bed. And what was she to him? Had she ever known? In those first few weeks, she had been so entranced that she hadn’t seen what was now becoming startlingly clear, that he put everything, everything, before her. Except when they made love.
She ached for his touch. If she turned to him now, if she slid across the bed to Neil, would he welcome her? The bed had never seemed so wide, but it wasn’t nearly as wide as it would be if he rebuffed her and she had to return to this side.
“Neil,” she asked hesitantly, “would it help if I quit the paper?”
He hadn’t moved. Neither had she. Both lay on their backs staring at the ceiling. But she felt him growing closer.
“Do you want to?”
No, she didn’t want to. Sometimes when she turned in what she knew was a particularly good story, she felt as if the newsroom was the only place where she had any true worth.
She couldn’t say that, though.
“Mrs. Winston asked if I was going to resign.”
She felt him shifting, turning toward her. “But do you want to?” he repeated softly. She swallowed and held herself still, fighting against turning toward him, fighting against begging him to take her in his arms.
“I don’t want to stand in your way,” she said. “If my resigning will help your campaign, I’ll do it.”
It was an overture, he realized, not the wholehearted support he wanted, but he also recognized that for her it was a major concession. He willed her to come to him.
She grew uneasy in the silence, waiting for him to speak. She shifted, turning toward him. He lay propped on an elbow, watching her.
“You’d do that for me?” he asked. The words whispered and hung between them. “Why, Ginnie?”
Surely he knew. “Because I love you. Because above all else I want you to be happy.”
She felt herself being drawn to him.
“Oh, Ginnie. Sweet Ginnie. You don’t have to do that. Maybe later there will be so many demands on us it will be necessary, but not now. Not now. Now all I need is you beside
me.”
And then she was in his arms, crushed beneath him as she welcomed the fierce aggression of his mouth and the possession of his hands. They were everywhere, that marvelous mouth, those wondrous hands, bringing her life, bringing her love.
She felt the nightgown being drawn from her and, for one brief moment, the air-conditioning of the room, but that was no opponent for the heat Neil was building within her. She reached for him, touching him where she could, his back, his shoulders, his hips, feeling that her caresses were ineffectual but able to do nothing more. He moved lower. His hands were under her hips now, and his lips and tongue moved across her stomach, igniting fires, setting off small explosions deep within her. She caught his face with her hands and tugged him upward, needing his mouth on hers, moaning her need as he met it.
She moved beneath him. Too soon, it was too soon. She knew it. He sensed it and tried to draw back. She threw her arms around him, holding him to her, and arched against him. With a groan, he surged into her and then lay still, fighting for control.
“I love you, Neil,” she said against his mouth as she began moving, urging him on. “I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned as he took control, murmuring words of love against her. Love me, her heart cried. Want me. Need me. “Oh, yes.” He grew more demanding, his breath rasping in the darkness, his moans mingling with hers. He covered her mouth with his to silence their sounds. “Oh, yes.” Make me believe it, she cried silently, even if it isn’t true. Love me, Neil. “Ohhh, yesss.”
Chapter 4
Ginnie stood at the kitchen sink tearing lettuce for salad. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of chicken stew, and the ingredients were measured, waiting to be combined for dumplings to be added to it. It was a miserable chill day in late October. All afternoon rain had threatened, and she knew that when it fell it would be cold and piercing, but she welcomed the touch of autumn. She hummed as she worked. Tonight, finally, Neil had a free evening at home.
The dining-room table was already set for three, with candles and an arrangement of daisies she had made time to pick up on her way home from the paper.
