Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "What?"

  "Collecting people who desperately need befriending? I recall a certain aimless wanderer in London, an expatriated American who was terribly lonely. You nurtured him, too."

  "Your memory is bad. That's what he did for me." She went up on tiptoes and kissed his lips softly. "I'll never be able to repay you for all you've meant to me, Mark. Thank you for coming. I didn't realize how much I needed you until I saw you."

  As always, when he didn't have an audience, his beauti­ful smile was tinged with sadness and self-derision. "Be­fore this gets too pithy, show me Belle Terre."

  "Where should we start?"

  "Did you mention horses?"

  Ken was the last one to meet Mark.

  By that time they were having predinner drinks in the formal parlor. Mark had been given the grand tour of the house, including all the outbuildings. When they returned, Schyler had excused herself to freshen up before dinner. Mark, already impeccable, had nonetheless gone to his room, ostensibly to do the same.

  When Schyler came downstairs wearing a cool, frothy voile print dress, Mark was being entertained by Tricia in the parlor. Schyler was amused by her sister's transforma­tion. Tricia's dress was fancier than the occasion war­ranted, but Schyler wasn't surprised that Tricia had chosen to wear it. It showed off her voluptuous figure and an im­modest amount of suntanned cleavage.

  When Schyler entered the parlor, Tricia was saying, "I don't actually remember when Mr. Kennedy was president, but I've watched old films of him. You sound just like him. Of course you probably think I have an accent."

  Mark's eyes lit up when Schyler entered. He went to greet her, taking both her hands and kissing her cheek. "You look wonderful. This stifling climate suits you like a hothouse does an orchid. Drink?"

  "Please." Blushing with pleasure over his compliment, she sat down on one of the love seats while Mark, making himself at home at the sideboard, prepared her a tall gin and tonic. His thoughtfulness didn't escape Tricia, whose effervescence had fizzled since Schyler had come in. Schyler said to her, "Mark actually knows the Kennedys. Did he tell you that?"

  Tricia's eyes went round with amazement. "No! Those Kennedys? Why I think that's simply fascinating." Mark carried Schyler her drink. He started to sit down beside her, but Tricia was patting the cushion next to her. Politely he sat down beside her again. "Tell me how you met them. Did you know Jackie, too?"

  "Actually the Kennedys were neighbors of ours. My par­ents have a home at Hyannis Port."

  "Really? Oh, I've always wanted to go there." She laid a hand on his thigh. "Is it truly beautiful?"

  "Well—"

  Just then Ken walked in. He took in the parlor scene with one sour glance. Schyler said, "Hello, Ken."

  "I called the landing. The ignoramus who answered the phone said there was an emergency at the hospital. I called there. Nobody knew anything about it."

  "No emergency. Daddy's coming home tomorrow." That piece of news did nothing to lighten Ken's dark frown. "Mark paid me a surprise visit," Schyler said hastily. "Everything happened so fast, I didn't have a chance to call you."

  She introduced him to Mark. Mark stood up, causing Tricia's hand to slide off his thigh. He met Ken halfway and the two men shook hands. Ken's face was sulky. Schyler had known that Ken was prepared to hate Mark on sight, and it was obvious that he did. He took one look at Mark's bandbox appearance and excused himself to go up­stairs.

  When he came back down, he was dressed in a summer suit and pastel tie. He had also showered; his hair was still damp, and he smelled like the men's cologne counter at Maison-Blanche in downtown New Orleans.

  "Can I refill anyone's drink?" he asked, crossing to the sideboard.

  He glared at his wife who was monopolizing Mark and prattling on about her reign as Laurent Parish's Mardi Gras Queen. "I was eighteen that summer. Lordy, has it been that long?" she said with a sigh. "I can remember how anxious I was to get all my dresses made in time. You can't imagine how many parties there are. My parade float has never been equaled. Everybody says so. I loved it." She pursed her lips sadly. "Schyler missed out on all that. They passed her up for. . . Who was queen that year, Schyler?"

  "Dora Jane Wilcox, I believe."

  Schyler was furious. For almost an hour she had watched Tricia's hand slide up and down Mark's thigh. She had watched her simper and flirt until she wanted to throw up. Her sister's saccharine performance for Mark was nau­seating.

  Whether Tricia was doing it to make her jealous, or Ken jealous, or for the sheer fun of it, it was aggravating the hell out of Schyler. Tricia was dominating Mark and he was too polite to excuse himself from her.

  "That's right," Tricia exclaimed. "Dora Jane Wilcox. Well I told you, Schyler, that you spent too much time with Daddy at the landing and not enough time at the country club getting to know the people on the selection commit­tee."

  "And I told you, Tricia, that I didn't give a damn about that society stuff. Then or now."

  "I was involved for Mama's sake. Before she died, all she talked about was our coming-out parties and such. I felt like we owed it to her to participate in the things she loved."

  Tricia made a taking sound and shook her head at Mark as if to say that Schyler was a hopeless case. "She still spends all her time at the landing. I invited her to join my clubs, but she won't hear of it.

  "All she does is work, work, work. She's taken it upon herself to run Belle Terre even though it just wears her out. About the best thing you could do for her is whisk her right back to London." Flirtatiously she gazed at him through her eyelashes. "Not that I'm anxious for you to leave, of course."

  "Dinner's ready, Ms. Crandall," Mrs. Dunne announced from the archway.

  "Thank you." Schyler was so angry she could barely speak. "We're coming."

  Tricia shot the housekeeper a dirty look for announcing dinner to Schyler instead of to her. Possessively she latched onto Mark's arm as they stood up. She nestled it against her breasts. "Mark can escort me to the dining room. Ken, you bring in Schyler."

  Ken, who had been slamming back straight double bour­bons at a reckless rate, carried the decanter with him. He gripped Schyler's elbow with his other hand. Together they crossed the wide entry hall and went into the dining room. Mark was holding out Tricia's chair. She was smiling up at him over her shoulder.

  "Sit here beside me, Mark. Ken and Schyler can take the other side. Daddy always sits at the head of the table. It would be just about perfect if he was here, wouldn't it?"

  Things were far from perfect. In fact they started off badly with the fruit compotes when Tricia, with no small amount of asperity, told her husband he was drinking too much. After that, she ignored him and directed her ani­mated conversation to Mark, who responded with noble charm.

  With each wonderfully prepared course, tension around the table mounted. Schyler got angrier, Ken was mad at the world, it seemed, and Mark was anxious because the light had gone out of Schyler's eyes. Tricia was the only one having a good time.

  That came to an abrupt finish during dessert.

  She had said something she thought incredibly witty. As she giggled, she leaned toward him, mashing her breasts against his arm. Mark laughed with her, but it was strained laughter. Then he blotted his mouth with the stiff linen napkin and said, "I'll spare you anymore efforts, Tricia."

  Her laughter ceased abruptly and she gazed at him blankly. "Efforts? What do you mean?"

  "You can stop pressing my thigh beneath the table. Give your fluttering eyelids a rest. And stop giving me glimpses of your breasts. I'm not interested."

  Tricia's fork clattered to her plate. She looked at him whey-faced.

  He smiled pleasantly. "You see, I'm gay."

  Chapter Forty-two

  "That wasn't very kind."

  Schyler was leaning against the corner pillar of the ve­randa. Her hands were folded behind her lower back. The balmly breeze blew against her, molding the soft dress to her body. Fair strands of hair
stirred against her cheeks.

  The night was almost as beautiful as the woman. The sky was studded with brilliant stars. The moon limned the branches of the live oaks with silver light. The orchestra of insects had tuned up and was in full swing. Floral scents hung heavily in the sultry air.

  "What she was doing to you wasn't very kind either." Mark was lounging in one of the fan-back wicker chairs. He'd been appreciating a snifter of brandy for the last half hour. He now drained it and set it on the small round table at his elbow. "You know that it's not like me to be unkind. I couldn't help myself. I stood it for as long as I could. Tricia deserved to be taken down a peg for what she was doing to you."

  "Which was?"

  "Trying to steal me."

  He was right. It was just painful for Schyler to admit it. She stared off into the distance. "You took her down more than a peg. You knocked the slats out from under her."

  Mark raised his hands above his head and stretched, shoving his feet out in front of him at the same time. "That's probably why she flounced upstairs. The look she gave me was so venomous I should be dead by now. Your sister is a viper."

  "You shouldn't say things like that about her to me."

  "I refuse to apologize."

  "As her husband, Ken should have jumped to her de­fense. Instead he laughed."

  "Yes," Mark said wryly, drawing his long, elegant limbs back in. "Your brother-in-law was delighted by my an­nouncement. Now he knows that I don't pose a threat."

  "A threat?" Schyler's head came around. "To whom?"

  "To him. Don't you realize that the man was eaten up with jealousy?"

  "Over Tricia."

  Mark's blond head reflected moonlight as he shook it. "Over you. He still loves you, Schyler."

  "I don't think so." Pulling her hands from behind her, she made a dismissive gesture. "Maybe he thinks he still loves me, but I think what he feels is something else. I'm an anchor, something he needs to hold on to."

  "Why? Is he slipping?"

  Mark had intended that as a joke, but Schyler answered him seriously. "Yes, I think he is. At least he feels that he is. There's something wrong . . . no, that's too strong a word. There's something not right with Ken. I'm not sure what."

  "I do." She glanced at him inquiringly. "He knows he made a grave error. He married the wrong woman. He has let Tricia and your father make all his decisions for him. His life isn't worth shit. That's hard for a man to take."

  One of the things she had always admired about Mark was that he didn't mince words. Even when it hurt to be blunt, he was. "I think you're probably right," she said softly. "He's made several advances."

  "Of a romantic nature?"

  "Yes."

  "How pathetic. What was your reaction?"

  "I've warded them off, of course."

  "On moral grounds?"

  "Not entirely."

  "Then you don't love him any longer?"

  "No," she said sadly. "I don't. There wasn't so much as a spark when he touched me. I think I had to come back to realize it though."

  "Want to know a secret?" He didn't wait for her reply. "I think you stopped loving him a long time ago, if you ever loved him at all."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I was tempted, but you wouldn't have believed me. You had to find it out for yourself."

  "I wasted so much time," she said with regret.

  "I don't believe time is wasted when one is healing. You had a lot of healing to do. Does the brandy come with the room?" He nodded at the silver tray Mrs. Dunne had brought out bearing two snifters and a decanter.

  "Please help yourself."

  "You?"

  "No thanks." Schyler watched him pour himself another drink. He took a sip, leaned his head back against the wicker and closed his eyes to fully appreciate the bouquet of the potent liquor. "Mark?" His eyes came open. "I be­lieve what you said about Ken is right. But I hope you weren't obliquely referring to anyone else I know when you said his life isn't worth shit."

  He smiled at her ruefully. "Live with a woman for six years and she thinks she knows you."

  "I do know you."

  He held up the snifter and studied the moon through its amber contents. "Perhaps you do."

  "I recognize the melancholia."

  "Don't be too alarmed. You know I go through these phases periodically. They're almost as regular as your men­strual cycle. I'll get over this funk in a day or two. In the meantime I'll wallow in self-pity. I'll wonder why I didn't let my parents go on deluding themselves that I was straight and marry the woman they had chosen for me. Everyone would have been much happier."

  "No one would have been happier, Mark. Especially not the woman. You couldn't have fooled her for long. And certainly not you. As honest as you are with everyone, including yourself, you would have been miserable living a lie."

  "But my mother and father would have been happy. They wouldn't have looked at their only son and heir with horror and disgust."

  Schyler's heart ached for him. He'd been banished by his parents, who maintained a high profile among Boston's elite. That their son was gay had been an abomination, something untenable. Like a malignancy, they had cut him out of their lives.

  "Have you heard from them recently?"

  "No, of course not," he said, draining the snifter for the second time. "But that's not why I'm melancholy."

  "Oh?"

  "No. I'm depressed over losing my roommate."

  Schyler smiled wanly and ducked her head. "How did you know?"

  Mark left his chair and came to stand in front of her. He laid his hands against her cheeks. "My analogy comparing you to a hothouse orchid was outrageously poetic, but ac­curate, I believe. You've flourished here, Schyler." He gazed around him, taking in the density of the night. "This is where you belong."

  She sighed deeply. "I know. For all its drawbacks, I love it." Tears formed in her eyes. "The ratty little town, the narrow-minded people, the forests, the bayous, the smell of the earth, the humidity and heat. Belle Terre. I love it."

  He hugged her hard, pressing her head into the crook of his shoulder. "God, don't apologize for it. Stay here, Schyler, and be happy."

  "But I'll miss you."

  "Not for long."

  "Always."

  He tilted her head away from him and wiped the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. "When we met we were emotional cripples. Whether you had come home or not, I'm not sure it was healthy for us to go on depending on each other for support and safekeeping. We had a mutually beneficial arrangement. You didn't have to fight off unwelcomed attention from men. I hid my homosexuality behind your skirts. Most married couples aren't as good friends as we are." His smile was wistful. "But we can't go on living together indefinitely. You need more than that. You need more than I can give you." He leaned forward and whis­pered, "You need Belle Terre."

  "It needs me, too."

  She had kept him abreast of her tribulations because she knew he was genuinely interested. During their tour of the house, he had listened patiently while she brought him up to date.

  "Tomorrow Daddy will be home. I'm delighted. But that means I'll be dividing my time between him and my work at the landing. I can't sacrifice one to the other. I want to include him on decisions so he doesn't feel useless, but I can't let him become too emotionally involved or he could suffer another attack. It'll be a real juggling act."

  "You can handle it."

  "Do you really think so?"

  "I really think so." He combed his fingers through her hair. "When were you going to tell me that you were here to stay, Schyler?"

  "I don't know. I'm not even sure I knew for certain my­self until you said that about losing your roommate. I guess my final decision was lying there in my subconscious, waiting for someone to pull it out."

  "Hmm." He nodded thoughtfully. "Does your subcon­scious decision to stay have anything to do with the ciga­rette?"

  "The cigarette?"

  He hitched
his chin in the direction of the woods beyond the yard. "There's been one glowing out there for as long as we've been on the veranda."

  Schyler whipped her head in that direction. "Cash," she whispered.

  "Mr. Boudreaux," Mark said dryly. "His name pops up frequently in your conversation. I wonder if you realize how often it's, 'Cash says this,' or 'Cash does that.'"

  She couldn't quite meet the amusement in his eyes, so she stared at the carefully knotted necktie at his throat. "It's not what you think. It's very complicated."

  "It usually is, love."

  "No, Mark, it's more than just boy-girl games. He's. . ."

  "Wrong for you."

  "That's an understatement."

  "His reputation with women is dubious."

  "Not dubious at all. It's definite. Quite definite. He nails everything that moves."

  "Is that a quote?"

  "Roughly."

  "I thought so. It didn't sound like you."

  "It's not only that Cash is a womanizer. He's—"

  "From the wrong side of the tracks. In this case, the wrong side of the bayou."

  "I'm not a snob," she said defensively.

  "But most people are," he reminded her gently. "And, after all, you're a Crandall from Belle Terre. What would people think?"

  "It's not even as simple as that. I've never given too much thought to what other people think. Mama did. Cot­ton was just the opposite. He never gave a flying—I'll skip that quote." Mark laughed and it was good to hear his laughter. Shrugging, smiling, she said, "I guess I fall somewhere in between them. I don't really care what peo­ple think, but I feel a responsibility to Belle Terre to keep us respectable."

  "You're getting off the subject. What about Cash Bou­dreaux?"

  "I don't know. He's. . . It's. . ." She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. "So damned confusing. I don't trust him and yet. . ."

  "You lust for him."

  She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. She'd never been able to lie to Mark. She couldn't even stretch the truth. His bald honesty with himself demanded honesty from everyone else. "Yes," she confessed softly. "I lust for him."