Forever Spring

by Joan Hohl

  “It would appear that we have at least one thing in common,” he said. “We are both apparently overly tidy people.”

  Karen’s smile matched his in wryness. “Why do I get the sneaky feeling that you’ve also been accused of being a fussbudget?”

  The bottle went still, poised over the glass. The stream of clear liquid ceased flowing. Paul slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. The light of impish humor glowed in the dark depths of his eyes.

  “You, too, huh?” When Karen nodded, he grinned. “My daughter Nicole once told me that though I wasn’t exactly clean-crazy, I most definitely was straighten-up-nuts.”

  Karen’s laugh of delight rippled through the room, adding a dimension of comfort unrelated to the bright down-home decor. “I think I’d like your Nicole,” she said when the amusement subsided. “She sounds like fun.”

  “She is now, because she’s happy.” Paul’s expression was somber. “But there was a period, a very long period, when she seemed barely alive, never mind fun.”

  There was no way Karen could let his statement pass. Reaching to accept the glass he held out to her, she voiced her interest. “There was a time when your daughter was unhappy?” For some inexplicable reason, she couldn’t imagine a child of Paul’s being unhappy—which was really silly, Karen knew. Most children suffered periods of unhappiness for one reason or another.

  Paul’s hesitation was brief but telling. He obviously didn’t want to discuss his daughter. “Nicole was involved in an auto accident some years ago,” he said finally. “She withdrew from life, from her family, while she worked out the aftereffects of the damage.” The minute emphasis he placed on the words her family spoke volumes about his own worry and anxiety during that period.

  “She was handicapped?” Karen asked softly, even as she told herself to let it go.

  “She was a model,” Paul said slowly. “A rather famous model. The crash left her face, neck and shoulder scarred.” His tone, or rather the complete lack of it, revealed much about the anguish he’d felt at the time.

  Still, Karen couldn’t let the subject drop; she had to ask. “But she’s all right now?”

  Paul’s lips curved into a gentle, contented smile. “Yes, she’s more than all right. Nicole’s not only happy, she is deeply in love with her husband.” Parental Tove and pride glowed from his softened dark eyes.

  “I’m glad,” Karen said, simply but with utter sincerity. “And your son?” She was completely aware that the roles of questioner and questionee had been neatly reversed; she hoped to keep it that way. A small smile teased her lips as the glow brightened in his eyes. It was obvious to Karen that Paul unconditionally adored his son. Being in the same emotional condition concerning her own boys, she could appreciate the pride shining from his eyes.

  “My son Peter is—special.” Paul went still as his eyes widened fractionally. “Good Lord!” he muttered.

  “What?” Even though his voice had been low, the tone of it affected Karen like a shout. “What is it?” she asked, glancing around as if she expected to see a visible cause for his distress.

  Paul gave a sharp shake of his head. “I told Peter I’d call him this evening.” He sighed. “And now I’ve very likely got both Peter and his wife Patricia worried.”

  Not quite understanding his agitation, Karen motioned toward the hallway. “There’s a phone less than ten feet away from you in the hall. Be my guest.” Paul’s expression changed instantly. A teasing gleam sprang into his eyes to banish the shadow of concern. “It’s a long-distance call. My son lives in Philadelphia.”

  Karen sipped her wine daintily before responding in a dry tone. “I’m in an expansive mood.” She indicated the foyer with a negligent wave. “Better take advantage of it. It doesn’t happen often.”

  “You’re a bit austere with the purse strings?” “Nooo...” Karen drew the word out slowly. “I’m a true product of my New England upbringing and very austere with the purse strings.” Her soft lips tightened. “It was one of the biggest bones of contention between me and Charles.”

  “Charles?” That one softly spoken word from Paul reversed the roles again.

  Karen sighed into her delicate glass and took a deep, fortifying swallow. “Charles Mitchell.”

  “Your former husband?”

  She nodded once, then attempted to deflect the question she could see hovering on his lips. “Aren’t you going to make that call?”

  Paul’s slow smile sent Karen’s hopes crashing down in flames. “It’ll keep until morning. So will Peter. I’ll catch him at the office.”

  She gave it one last shot. “But you said they’ll worry.”

  “They’re used to it.” His drawl was heavy. “They’ve been angsting over me for nearly six months. Another night won’t make much difference either way.”

  His enigmatic statement sank a solid hook into Karen’s already aroused interest in him. She wanted to know everything, anything, about him. Paul didn’t allow her the seconds needed to sort her queries into a semblance of order.

  “You were telling me about Charles,” he said, scattering her thoughts.

  “I was?” She gulped at her wine and suddenly the glass was empty. Frowning at it, she held it out for refilling.

  “Well, no,” Paul admitted, tipping the bottle over her glass. “But I was hoping you would.” Topping off his own glass, he lounged in the roomy chair and offered her a bland, innocent look.

  Karen wasn’t fooled for an instant; but she did feel inordinately thirsty. After several more deep swallows of the wine, her tongue loosened considerably. “What exactly did you hope to find out?” She didn’t hear the fuzzy sound of her voice, but Paul did. He fought the urge to smile.

  “Would it be terribly crass of me to admit to hoping to hear the entire story?”

  “Terribly,” Karen muttered into her glass before taking another gulp. “But as I said, I’m in a strange, expansive mood tonight.”

  Not to mention slightly into your cups. Paul decided Karen was both cute and attractive with her Yankee edges blurred, but prudently kept his thoughts to himself. “Then I’ll be crass and ask for the story, from the beginning.”

  Karen worked at an affronted expression and failed miserably. To salve her feelings, she took another sip of wine. “I met Charles Mitchell while in my junior year of college in Boston.” Her lips twisted self-mockingly. “I was in love, married and two months pregnant before the start of my senior year. Needless to say, I never did graduate.”

  Pondering the twinge of emotion he felt stab at his midsection, Paul kept his tone free of inflection. “Go on.”

  “Life was wonderful for ten years—love, marriage, the two sons resulting from it and even the career I embarked on when Rand, my oldest, and Mark, my baby, were seven and five respectively.” Her sigh was revealing and hurt Paul in a way he didn’t understand. “At least I believed it was wonderful.” “Charles didn’t?” he probed softly.

  Karen shook her head. She certainly was excessively dry. She allowed herself another sip of the wine. “You must understand, Charles worked very hard. He was always dynamic, ambitious. It was part of his charm. Everyone knew he was going places.” She suddenly needed another, deeper swallow of wine. “The problem was, Charles was going places with several different women.”

  “What? You tolerated that?”

  Karen’s body jerked in reaction to the sharpness of Paul’s voice.

  “Tolerated?” Karen stared at him blankly, beginning to really feel the effects of her unaccustomed self-indulgence. Then his question registered. “I didn’t know!” she cried in self-defense. “I was so... so stupidly happy, I never dreamed...” Her voice gave way to tense silence as she noticed the uncanny stillness gripping Paul. What had she said to induce that stark expression on his handsome face? She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened her eyes, his expression was bland, free of strain. Had she imagined his look of near agony? Paul didn’t allow her the time to work it out in her cloudy mind
.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he drawled sarcastically. “A close friend dropped the hint that set you thinking and doubting and finally confirming. Right?”

  There was something in his tone, a tip-off to what he was thinking, but... Karen shook her head. Her senses were too fogged to permit in-depth thought. Instead, she sighed and answered his query. “No. If they knew, and I feel certain they did, my friends were too full of concern about hurting me.” Her smile was tired. “Charles told me.”

  “The bastard.” Though Paul’s voice was little more than a murmured snarl, Karen heard it.

  “Yeah.” The twang was thick and uncontrived. Her shoulders lifted, then dropped. The action said reams more than mere words would have. She tipped the glass to her trembling lips while a voice within her silently asked how in the hell she’d gotten into this discussion and, more importantly, why?

  “Karen?” The edge of concern in his voice was obvious. “Are you all right?”

  “Dandy,” Karen quipped, swallowing an unladylike hiccup. “I think I may be slightly smashed, but I’m just dandy.”

  Paul’s smile was gentle with compassion. “You don’t drink much as a rule, do you?”

  “Much?” Karen giggled. “I rarely drink at all. I keep the wine in stock for the paying guests.” She gazed at him with cloudy-eyed intent. “It has a tendency to unhinge the mind and loosen the tongue, doesn’t it?”

  “Hmm,” Paul murmured. “But not to worry, you’re safe.”

  Deeper and deeper. Karen narrowed her eyes. What was he telling her—without telling her? Was she safe because he simply wasn’t interested? But that didn’t equate, she told herself, remembering the strength of the vibrations his body had transmitted to hers almost from the moment they’d met. Or had the attraction all been from one side—hers? The thought was almost sobering... almost. And at the moment the thoughts were all just too much effort.

  “I want to sleep.” Her childlike request bounced off rock.

  “No, you don’t.” There wasn’t an ounce of give in Paul’s voice.

  “Yes, I do.” Karen sniffed and blinked owlishly. “I’m so sleepy.” Moving very carefully, she set her glass aside and stumbled to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go on up.” She started toward the hall, the mere fact of her forgotten glass saying more than words about her condition.

  “Stay right where you are.” The tone of authority in Paul’s voice halted her abruptly at the base of the wide stairway. Not even in her tipsy state could Karen consider disobeying his arresting command.

  “Paul, please.” Turning her head slowly, carefully, for the room had suddenly begun to sway, Karen gave him a weary look. “I must lie down.”

  Paul rose as he set his own glass aside. “No, Karen.” He shook his head gently as he walked to her. “Chances are that if you sleep now you’ll wake up sick. What you need is some exercise in the fresh air.” “Exercise!” Karen moaned. “Fresh air! You mean—like outside?”

  “Yes.” Paul was not altogether successful in masking his amusement.

  “But it’s cold outside!”

  “You forgot ‘baby.’”

  “What?” Karen glowered at him.

  “Forget it.” His lips twitched. “You’ll need a coat, a warm one. Where would it be?”

  Still glowering, Karen motioned distractedly at the closet inside the front door. “There’s a navy peacoat in there somewhere.”

  Eyeing her narrowly, Paul reached for the closet door. “If you bolt for the stairs, I’ll catch you,” he warned, reading her intentions correctly. When her shoulders slumped in defeat, he turned to rummage inside the closet. He found the jacket on a hook near the back of the closet and a navy-blue knit cap on a shelf above the row of hooks.

  Tired, fuzzy and thoroughly cowed, Karen stood docilely while Paul buttoned her into the jacket and tugged the hat onto her head and over her ears. When he turned to steer her along the hall to the side door that led to the beach, she tilted her head to run a misty-eyed glance over his sweater. It was warm, but not warm enough.

  “What about you?” she muttered, stepping by him onto the veranda and immediately gasping at the chill wind that stole her breath. “Where’s your coat?” “Close at hand.” Grasping her upper arm, Paul descended the veranda steps and walked to the side of his car parked in the sandy driveway. Pulling the back door open, he withdrew a down-filled nylon ski jacket. “1 tossed this onto the back seat when it warmed up today about noon.”

  “I see.” She didn’t, of course. Karen didn’t see or understand anything. A frown tugging her delicate eyebrows together, she watched as he shrugged into the brown-and-white jacket. She began to move automatically when he started walking toward the beach. “Where were you coming from today?” she gasped, quick-stepping to keep up with his long stride. “And please slow down!”

  Paul shortened his gait at once and slanted an apologetic smile at her. “I’m sorry. What was your question?” His innocent tone didn’t fool her for a second. Karen was slightly tipsy—she wasn’t unconscious. “You heard.”

  His laughter was low, and too darned attractive. “I was coming from farther up the coast.” He hesitated, as if in silent debate about continuing. Then he shrugged. “I’d spent the past couple of weeks in the small place my son owns up there. I closed it for the winter this morning.”

  Paul released his hold on her and draped his arm around her shoulders as they approached a high sand dune. Plowing through the loose sand, they moved as one around the dune and down onto the more solidly packed sand on the beach.

  “And you’re heading for Philadelphia?” she asked, breathing a little easier as they attained firmer ground.

  “Yes.” He paused, bringing her to a stop as he stared out at the white-tipped, inky sea. “It’s time I went back to work.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” Following his lead, she turned when he did, feeling her low shoes sink into the moist sand as they strolled along, inches from the lapping wavelets.

  “I was a banker.”

  Karen was not surprised; Paul looked like a banker. “Was?” she prompted, growing less fuzzy as the brisk breeze dispersed the aftereffects of the wine.

  “We can talk about that later,” Paul said, a trifle imperiously. “I want to hear about your ex-husband.” “Oh, Paul,” she sighed.*

  “You started it, now finish.” His tone was unrelenting. “What did you mean when you said he told you about the other women?”

  “Exactly that.” Karen’s shoulders moved in an uncomfortable shrug. “After over ten years of marriage, Charles came to me requesting—no,

  demanding—a more modern, civilized relationship.” Her voice betrayed her tightening throat. Even after five years, the memory had the power to infuriate her. “Continue.”

  Paul’s terse tone pierced the haze of anger in Karen’s mind. She exhaled sharply. “I didn’t, truly didn’t, understand what he was talking about. Charles was happy to enlighten me.” A shudder rippled through her body, and Karen felt grateful for the weight of Paul’s arm around her shoulder, tightening to steady her. “He said that a modern, civilized marriage should never include the restrictive bonds of fidelity.”

  Paul was quiet, too quiet. Karen could feel the tension tautening his muscles, but before she could question him he again nudged her into speech.

  “Finish. Get it out of your system.”

  “There isn’t much more. He suggested we stay together, as a family, but that we both—” her voice went flat and hard “—share the wealth, as it were.”

  At any other time, the viciousness of Paul’s curse might have shocked Karen, but on a dark beach, in a darker frame of mind, she endorsed the expletive.

  “Since you’re here, alone, I’m assuming you told him no.”

  “I told him to go to hell.”

  “Bravo.”

  Paul’s one word of approval and praise warmed Karen throughout the hour they trudged through the sand in companiona
ble silence. She didn’t know why his commendation warmed her; she only knew that it did.

  “And your sons?” Paul broke the unstrained silence as they were shrugging out of their jackets. “How did they react?”

  Karen blamed her shiver on the chilly wind and managed a faint smile. “Who ever knows with children? There are moments 1 tell myself that they are handling it all very well.” She lost the smile. “And then there are other times I feel positive they are blaming me because I left their father.” Feeling the sting of incipient tears, she swung away, heading for the kitchen. “How about a cup of hot chocolate?” The subject was closed; Paul accepted her decision. “I’d prefer tea,” he said easily, strolling into the room behind her. “Less calories, you know.” His teasing ploy worked, drawing a genuine smile from her.

  “Tea it is.” Karen started for the stove, then paused to glance at him over her shoulder. “And, Paul, thanks for insisting on the walk. It helped.”

  “Feeling better? Less disoriented?”

  “Yes.” She actually laughed. “If a little foolish.” “Not necessary.” He crossed the brick-tiled floor, coming to a stop mere inches away from her. “We’re all allowed our weak moments.”

  Karen lowered her eyes. “But perhaps we should have them when we’re alone.”

  “I’ll never tell.” He raised her chin with the tip of one finger. His smile was heartwarmingly tender. “How about that tea?”

  Karen felt amazingly good the next morning. Humming to herself as she prepared breakfast, she reiterated her last thought before sleep had caught up to her the previous night: Paul Vanzant was a very nice man... and darned sexy, too!

  Smiling, she turned away from the stove, intending to dash up the stairs and knock on his bedroom door to tell him that breakfast was almost ready. Paul strode through the back door before she could take the first step.

  “Something smells good.” He smiled and inhaled deeply. “No, everything smells good.”

  Karen laughed. “I thought you were still asleep. 1 was just going to rouse you.”

  “I’ve been up for hours,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket as he went toward the hall closet. And I’ve been aroused ever since I got here! Paul kept the thought to himself, savoring the sensation like a warm fire on a bitter day. He was feeling good. Wrong! He was feeling great. His mood was infectious. He had Karen laughing easily moments after returning to the kitchen.