Forever Spring

by Joan Hohl

  Paul was hurting, in his mind and in his body. With wry self-understanding, he acknowledged that, were Karen there to share the bed with him, the unfamiliar mattress would offer sweet surcease to his active imagination and too long denied, and now starving, flesh.

  Into his tired mind danced a vision of her the night before, passionate, laughing, as hungry for him as he was for her. His body throbbing with a demand that could not be appeased, Paul muttered a curse.

  Paul needed Karen, not merely in the physical sense but in every way there was. He needed her laughter as well as her impassioned murmurs. He needed her levelheadedness as well as her physical abandon. He needed her spiritually as well as physically. And the need had been growing with each successive mile as more distance came between them.

  Pulling a robe over his chilled, naked body, Paul paced the inhibiting confines of the room and wished for a drink—a double. By itself, his thirst was sure sign of his mental condition. Paul rarely drank hard liquor, and then only in moderation. His tastes ran more to cool white wine and coolheadedness. Paul had not been handed his reputation as a shrewd banker and businessman; he had gained it by intelligent hard work. In his opinion, intelligence and indulgence did not coexist profitably. Nevertheless, at midnight in a lonely motel room in Connecticut, Paul wished he had a large measure of something potent and mind-divorcing.

  In keen anticipation, he picked up the room-service menu. He sighed, acceptance replacing anticipation as he noted that room service was available only until eleven at night. Flipping the menu onto the desk-dresser, Paul resumed pacing.

  How had it happened? he mused, cursing softly when his shinbone made painful contact with a corner of the bed. Ignoring the scrape, he concentrated on the question he’d asked himself.

  How had it happened, this uncomfortable, unnerving state he now found himself in? Paul shook his head. He had exchanged a few innocuous remarks with a stranger on the beach. And from that most innocent of beginnings, he now found himself needing that stranger as a scholar needed books, as an addict needed a fix—merely to exist. But why?

  Paul frowned. Why, indeed, this one particular woman? What was so special about Karen that made her different, at least to him, from countless others? And Paul had met countless other women, both socially and professionally. Yet not one of those other women had been able to catch his personal interest, although, modesty aside, he had been aware of how very hard a number of them had tried to capture his attention.

  What made Karen special? Coming to an abrupt stop in the center of the room, Paul gazed blankly at the rumpled bed while he peered inward, seeking answers.

  There had been an instantaneous attraction between them, he recalled, feeling a tiny thrill at the memory of her smiling up at him from her seated position in the sand. But Paul was well aware that there was more to the way he was feeling than could be explained as simple physical or chemical attraction.

  Perhaps it was Karen’s levelheadedness and stability that appealed to him. Paul conceded the possibility; after the years he’d spent attempting to deal with a rather unstable woman, that quality would appeal to him. But, he reasoned, there was much more involved here than mere levelheadedness and stability.

  Perhaps it was Karen’s warmth and generous spirit that charmed him. A faint smile tipped up the corners of Paul’s lips. Yes, he had been most decidedly charmed by her warmth and spirit, especially since both attributes had been sorely lacking in his wife. But warmth and spirit didn’t quite encompass all he was feeling, either.

  Perhaps it was simply that Karen was, without question, a natural, down-to-earth, real person, meeting life on her own terms, with her own methods.

  Into Paul’s mind crept a vision of her large, outdated house, standing foursquare before the winds raking the land and the storms flung from the sea.

  Paul smiled and sighed.

  Karen Mitchell was like the house she had chosen to retreat to after the failure of her marriage. With a smile on her lips and a defiant toss of her head, she had deserted the excitement of the city to stand foursquare on ancestral earth. With her principles intact, Karen lived the only way she knew how to live, embracing the moralistic doctrine that Paul knew was tormenting her conscience because of her abandon in his arms.

  A spasm of pain and sadness flickered over Paul’s face. He knew there was no way Karen could rationalize a contradiction. He was also certain that, to her way of thinking, giving herself to him had been a contradiction of every one of her beliefs, regardless of the pleasure and satisfaction derived from her act of giving. Karen’s self-recrimination had been her reason for rejecting his suggestion that he follow her to Boston.

  Her rejection was the reason for the way he was hurting at that moment. Karen Mitchell, with her laughter and passion, her spirit and inhibiting fears, was the one person in the world that Paul Vanzant needed and ached for.

  He needed her. His chest heaving with a deeply indrawn breath, Paul tossed off his robe and slid into the empty bed.

  He needed her, not only in his bed but in his life, as well. And whether or not she acknowledged it, Paul instinctively knew that Karen needed him, too. All he had to do was convince her of her need.

  “Dammit!”

  Chapter Eight

  The cry stabbed into Karen’s tired mind with increasingly depressing regularity. With each passing mile that brought them closer to the large house on the coast of Maine, Karen’s thoughts persisted in conjuring up visions of the one person she didn’t want to think about.

  Where was he? Was he at home with his son and daughter-in-law in Philadelphia, or was he wandering again in search of whatever or whomever? It hurt Karen to think about it—to think about him. Still, weary after two weeks’ vigilance at Charles’s bedside, at the hospital and then in his parents’ home, she could not stem the flow of conjecture.

  Paul.

  Forming his name, even silently, relieved a bit of the tension coiling along her nerves. The commitment to have Charles in her home to recuperate had been made. Karen would abide by it, even if she was secretly resentful of the imposition. For while she might have held out against Dr. Rayburn and the elder Mitchells, she had caved in to the pleas of her children. She would play nursemaid to Charles, but her thoughts were her own. And Karen’s thoughts were all on Paul Vanzant and her need to see him, talk to him, simply be with him.

  Deep in thought, Karen was only marginally aware of her passenger, surrounded by luggage on the back seat of her car. Alert to her wandering attention, Charles made his presence known with a soft but audible groan. His ploy worked beautifully; Karen snapped to attention.

  “Charles, are you all right?” Her gaze sought his in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes, I guess so.” Charles met her probing stare for an instant. “I’m just getting a little tired.” His eyelids drooped. “It’s been a long day.”

  Karen felt contrite immediately. Charles’s mild complaint was valid; it had been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet.

  “Would you like me to stop somewhere?” she asked anxiously, chancing another quick glance at the mirror. “You could have a warm drink and stretch your legs.”

  “Yes... if you don’t mind.” His voice was little more than a weary whisper.

  Alarm raced through Karen, chilling her body, momentarily freezing her mind. What would she do if he became ill? The road was virtually deserted, with few roadside stops. If Charles became ill, or had another attack...! Karen caught her thoughts up short. She was beginning to panic, and there was no reason for it. Hadn’t Dr. Rayburn approved the trip? Surely if the doctor had thought there was any danger to Charles, he wouldn’t have hesitated to state his objections. But the doctor hadn’t objected. In fact, Dr. Rayburn had heartily approved.

  Bolstered by the memory of the specialist’s endorsement of Charles’s plea to be allowed to leave Boston sooner than originally planned, Karen brought her fears under control. It would be all right, she assured herself. Charles would be all ri
ght. He was tired, understandably so, and that was all. But the arduous trip would be over before too long—thank heaven!

  Karen drew a deep, calming breath. “I don’t mind at all,” she said, smiling into the mirror. “I could use a drink and a stretch myself.” Her gaze drifted back to the road. “I’ll stop at the next restaurant or diner.”

  They drove in silence for some fifteen minutes, and Karen was beginning to wonder if he had fallen asleep when Charles drew her attention to the golden arches rising above the highway in the distance. Nodding her acceptance of the fast-food restaurant, Karen slowed the car to make the turn into the spacious parking lot.

  Though the late-fall air was cool, the sun had an Indian-summer warmth. After stepping from the car, Charles stood still, inhaling deep, reviving breaths of the autumn air.

  “I missed the foliage,” he said, strolling beside her toward the restaurant. “I was involved in a project, too busy to notice the change of seasons.”

  Karen didn’t respond; she couldn’t think of a thing to say to his remark. For as long as she could remember, Charles had always been too involved with some project or other—or, as she had later learned, with some woman or other—to take much notice of the seasonal changes.

  While Karen went to the counter to purchase regular coffee for herself and decaffeinated coffee for him, Charles chose a table on the outdoor patio. He was standing in the sunlight by the brick enclosure, his profile to her, as Karen carried the steaming cups out to the open-air section of the restaurant. Her gaze remote, detached, Karen studied the man she had at one time loved above all others.

  Charles hadn’t changed much in the five years since their divorce. Except for a slightly drawn look and a grayish pallor in his cheeks, evidence of the heart attack he’d suffered, his appearance was the same. He was still an extremely attractive, dynamic-looking man. Above average in height, his body scrupulously toned by rigorous workouts, Charles was undeniably a handsome man. In addition to his exceptional looks, Charles’s personality, and his masculine approach, had always set female hearts fluttering. And at age twenty, Karen had been no exception.

  But Karen was no longer twenty and no longer quite as naive as she’d been when meeting Charles for the first time. Then she had been literally swept off her feet by him. Now, older, wiser and much more discerning, Karen, though moved to compassion by his recent ordeal, was completely unmoved by the attractive picture he presented bathed by sparkling fall sunshine.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” she advised, handing him the Styrofoam cup. Tentatively sipping her own coffee, Karen gazed out over the waist-high patio enclosure. A faint smile tugged at her lips as her glance came to rest on a small play area, provided by the management for children restless from traveling.

  It seemed to Karen that it had been a long time since her own boys had derived entertainment from the simple pleasure of a short ride down a slide or balancing on a teeter-totter. A soft sigh eased through her lips as, in her mind’s eye, she saw her sons’ bright faces as they laughed and begged her to push their swings higher and higher.

  Suddenly Karen missed Rand and Mark, more acutely than at any other time since the divorce, and she ached to see them, touch them, hold them in her arms as she had the day of their arrival at the hospital. That unforgettable day was now two-week-old history. Randolf had escorted the boys back to school the day after the assortment of tubes and monitoring machines had been removed from their father and Charles had been moved from the coronary unit to a regular hospital room. Onjhat day, in the midst of the relief displayed by Charles and his family, Karen had felt deserted by her sons, and she still felt deserted. Staring at the children’s brightly colored playthings, Karen blinked against a rush of tears.

  Apparently the play area also brought thoughts of the boys to Charles’s mind. “Did I tell you I spoke to Rand and Mark on the phone before we left Boston this morning?” he asked in a murmur.

  His question dried the gathering tears and drew her frowning gaze to his watchful eyes. “No.” Karen shook her head. “Why did you call them?”

  Charles moved his shoulders in a half shrug. “They were both so reluctant to return to school—” he shrugged again “—I thought I’d reassure them about the state of my health.”

  “And were they reassured?”

  “Seemed to be.” Charles paused to smile. “But it’s difficult to tell with kids, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Karen returned his smile, sharing with him, if nothing else, concern for the well-being of the children they had created together. “Children have a tendency to talk tough when they’re frightened. And your attack frightened them very badly.”

  “And what about you? Were you frightened, too?” Charles gave her his most intense, melting look.

  Immune to his charm, Karen didn’t melt; she merely smiled. “Yes, Charles,” she admitted, deliberately pandering to his need for an ego boost. “I was frightened.” Her smile grew wry. “I have no wish for your demise.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Knowing you were frightened gives me hope for the weeks ahead.”

  For an instant, Karen went absolutely still, barely breathing, afraid to think. But she had to know, had to ask. “What do you mean?” She had to force her fingers to ease their grip on the cup. “What are you getting at?”

  His expression was one of superiority; Karen had always detested that particular expression. Now she discovered she resented it as well. “Don’t smirk at me,

  Charles,” she snapped. “Just explain what you meant by your remark.”

  Annoyance flickered across his face, revealing his dissatisfaction with her response. Karen could read his expression as easily as a first-grade primer. Always before, when she had been young and fathoms-deep in love, she had quailed at his mildest expression of reproof, quailed and hastened to appease him. Karen was no longer young or fathoms-deep in love with Charles. She no longer quailed at much of anything, and she couldn’t have cared less if he was appeased or not. His expression made it evident that he was not thrilled with the mature Karen.

  “You do realize that the boys are hoping for a reconciliation between us while I’m recuperating in your home,” he finally replied in an infuriatingly condescending tone. “Don’t you?”

  “A reconciliation!” Karen exclaimed, stunned. “But it’s been five years! Why would either one of them think—” Her voice lost substance, and she shook her head as if trying to clear her mind. “That’s absolutely ridiculous!”

  “Why is it?” Charles retorted, his features betraying annoyance and anger.

  “Why?” In her shock, Karen failed to notice the renewed strength underlying his tone. “Charles, we have been divorced over five years. Of course the idea of a reconciliation between us is ridiculous.”

  “And I say it isn’t,” he insisted mulishly. “We’re both older, mature, more inclined to accept responsibility,” he went on doggedly.

  Karen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was forced to stifle the temptation to demand: “What’s this ‘we’ bit? I accepted the responsibility of marriage from day one.” Instead, she attacked from a different direction. “And what about your latest, er, friend?” she asked sweetly, recalling the svelte, ambitious blonde he’d introduced her to the last time Karen had taken the boys to visit their grandparents in Boston. “Don’t you think she—ah, what was her name again?—oh, yes, Claudia, wasn’t it?” His lips had tightened in growing anger, but Karen went on ruthlessly. “Whatever. Don’t you think she might object?”

  “Yes, her name is Claudia,” Charles said in a tight voice. “And whether she objects or not doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. The important thing here is—”

  “To get home before nightfall,” Karen interrupted to finish for him. “This subject is irrelevant,” she continued impatiently, tossing her empty cup into a trash can, “and closed.” She spun away from him.

  “The subject is not irrelevant,” Charles argued, following her at a leisurely pace to the
car. “And will be reopened again when you’re in a more receptive frame of mind.”

  Don’t hold your breath, Karen thought, sliding behind the wheel and slamming the car door forcefully.

  Throughout the remainder of the trip, the only voice to break the silence came from the car radio, which Karen had switched on before driving out of the restaurant’s parking area. But inside her head, her thoughts seethed and popped like an untended stew coming to a boil.

  How dare he? she railed silently. How dare Charles Mitchell assume that he had but to smile and snap his fingers to bring her to heel like a trained pet? And how dare he as casually dismiss his current paramour as not mattering? What had Claudia ever done to deserve his disdainful dismissal? Karen asked herself furiously. Come to that, what had Karen Mitchell ever done to earn his dubious favor?

  Anger and tension gnawing at her, Karen arrived home exhausted and in a chancy temper. Tipped off to her mood by either her expression or her defiantly angled jaw, Charles prudently offered no resistance when she suggested they have a light supper, then retire for the night.

  “I’ll take the room across the hall from yours,” he said between sips of the canned vegetable soup she had heated for their meal.

  A protest sprang immediately to Karen’s lips; the room across the hall from her belonged to Paul! Biting her lip, she caught back the declaration before it spilled from her tongue. A sense of despair filled her at the realization that the room did not belong to Paul and that it was doubtful he would ever occupy it again. Still, it grated on her to know that Charles would be sleeping in the bed that had supported Paul’s body. As she opened her mouth to suggest he choose another room, Charles effectively silenced her.