Flying High

by Gwynne Forster

  “Can Audie sit back here where she’ll be safe, Unca Nelson?”

  What was he going to do with this child when he reached the age of reason? “Audrey’s big enough to be safe up here.”

  “Oh. I’m going to get big real soon, Unca Nelson.”

  At M Street, Northwest, he crossed over to Fourteenth Street and headed for the bridge that would take them to Alexandria. A sense of pride pervaded him whenever he passed the Jefferson Memorial. Magnificent by day and awe-inspiring at night.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m a Marine officer sworn to give my life for my country,” he said to Audrey, “that I almost choke up whenever I look at this or when I see the Lincoln Memorial. I think of the countries I’ve been in and the abject poverty of most people on this earth—in Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean and especially Africa—and their enslavement to the past and to the despots who govern them. All that ensures they may never have a better life. Makes me humble. I’ll fight anybody and anything that threatens to take this away from me.”

  She shifted in the seat beside him. “I’ve never heard you voice such sentiments.”

  “Oh, I know there’s plenty wrong with this place, and I know what it is and what should be done to fix it. But it’s almost heaven compared to so many places I’ve been.”

  “Look at the birds, Unca Nelson,” Ricky screamed as they passed the Waterfowl Sanctuary on the drive along the George Washington Memorial Highway.

  “One day I’ll bring you out here. It’s spectacular on a pleasant day. He drove through Old Town Alexandria and parked. To throw the man he’d come to think of as “Mustache” off his trail, he’d had his secretary purchase their tickets. Half an hour early, at the foot of Prince Street, they boarded the Scandinavian-built schooner Alexandria, and he made sure they got on first. As unobtrusively as possible, he stationed himself near the entrance and watched until the boat shoved off. He could relax...almost; Mustache didn’t board after he did, but agents had means and used them. Still, he felt reasonably relaxed.

  However, as he turned from the railing, he didn’t have to be told that the man who’d buried his face in the Saturday edition of The Washington Post was the one he called Mustache.

  Twice, “Mustache” had seen Audrey with Ricky and himself, and that made her vulnerable. Marilyn wanted the matter kept secret, but he had to tell Audrey enough to ensure her awareness of possible danger. He watched the sights with one eye on his adversary. Along the shore as the seagulls glided above them and less flight-worthy birds fluttered overhead and alongside them, the Alexandria took them through bits of history; past Founders Park, dedicated to the Founding Fathers; Torpedo Factory Art Center, once a gun shell factory; past some of the town’s most elegant restaurants.

  As they disembarked, Ricky’s yawns gave Nelson the excuse he needed to cut their outing short. Later, Audrey lingered at her door, telegraphing to him her wish to prolong their time together. With Ricky asleep in his arms, he couldn’t even kiss her properly and had to settle for a stroke of his fingers along her cheeks and the promise that his eyes communicated.

  “That’s it,” he told Marilyn as soon as he fastened Ricky into his car seat, got in and closed the door. “I have to tell her. She can’t be sacrificed, and neither can my housekeeper.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Tell them not to widen their circle of friends right now.”

  He had planned to work at home that evening, but the severity of pain in his shoulder was such that he couldn’t concentrate.

  “Can you tell me some stories about the cow and the moon, Unca Nelson? Can I see the moon?”

  He’d never been so glad for a cloudy sky. “The clouds are covering the moon. I’ll tell you some bedtime stories when I’m not so sleepy,” he said, fighting pain so severe that talking irritated him.

  Ricky gazed up at him with trusting eyes. “I can tell you a bedtime story if you want to go to sleep,” he said. “Let’s see, ‘The Happy Chipmunks,’ ‘Puss ’N Boots’...” His eyes widened. “I know, I’ll tell you ‘The Golden Goose.’ Lie down.”

  “Ricky, come take your bath. Ricky, where are you?” Lena called.

  Ricky ran to the door. “Unca Nelson is sleepy, and I’m gonna tell him a bedtime story.”

  Relief flooded him when he heard Lena’s steps in the hallway. “You’d better take your bath first.”

  “Okay. Stay awake till I get back, Unca Nelson.”

  “I’ll try.” He closed his door, went into the bathroom, soaked a towel with hot water, folded it and wrapped it around his neck. After repeating the measure several times, the pain ebbed slightly. A hot shower left him feeling like a brand-new man, so he dressed in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs where he knew he’d find Lena watching a rerun of the Judge Judy show.

  “You’re not in danger,” he said, after giving her a brief synopsis of the problem. “I’m telling you because you’re entitled to know what’s going on.”

  She slapped her thighs and rolled her eyes. He figured that in her younger days and before personal tragedies darkened her life, Lena had been a handsome woman. If she’d had that gap between her two upper front teeth closed, she might even have been very good-looking. “Thanks,” she said. “If I catch that old vulture tagging behind me, I’ll walk right up to him and tell him I’m gonna have him arrested for sexual harassment.”

  Lena had an off-the-wall way of looking at things. He tried not to laugh, but it poured out of him anyway. When he could recover his aplomb, he told her, “That ought to put the fear of God in him. You bet he won’t want to see the inside of a clink.”

  “Humph. It’s my intention to put the fear of Lena into him. He may not be acquainted with the Lord.”

  Still laughing, Nelson bounded up the stairs, looked in on Ricky and found him asleep with his bunny in the crook of his arm. He gazed down at the boy, trying to understand when and how he had begun to feel as if Ricky were his own child. After lowering the air conditioner thermostat, he turned out the light and tiptoed from the room. He had to warn Audrey.

  * * *

  “Hi. I need to tell you something, and it’s not for the telephone.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nine o’clock. Can you meet me at the Omni Sheraton lounge, or should I come to your place?”

  “Is this urgent?”

  What a question! “I’m beginning to think it is, and it’s best I go to your house.”

  “All right. But Nelson—”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Oh yes, I do. I trust me, too, but I wouldn’t put my money on the pair of us. Alone together, we’re not trustworthy.”

  He could think of several dagger-sharp answers to that, but prudence dictated that he keep them to himself. He settled for “Trustworthy? I don’t remember having let myself down, so speak for yourself.”

  “Think harder, and you’ll come up with something. Something big.’

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Talk to yourself, honey. Ask yourself a few strategic questions. By the time you get here, you’ll be less certain. See you in half an hour.”

  “Yeah.” All of a sudden, staring at him through his mind’s eye was the picture of his beloved Carole in his bed with Bradford Stewart, his best friend. He blew out a long, tired breath. “Yeah. See you.”

  * * *

  Her smile when she opened the door had the shimmer of moonlight, an invitation whether or not she meant to extend one. He diverted his gla
nce in order to change the direction of his thoughts, and even then, red toenails peeped at him from between the thongs of her sandals. Pretty toes. His gaze traveled upward to bare knees punctuated with dimples and on to white shorts that covered only a small portion of thighs that were smooth, brown and luscious. Damn! All that talk about being trustworthy. He’d better change the venue.

  “Hi. Why don’t we...uh...go for a ride, maybe stop at The Igloo on Connecticut Avenue, get some ice cream or something? We can talk along the way.”

  She knitted her eyebrows. “But I thought—”

  “I did, too. But unless you’re interested in spontaneous combustion, I say we hightail it out of here.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh! Uh... Let me get my pocketbook.”

  He didn’t want to put his foot inside, and he’d feel silly waiting outside the front door. “You don’t need it. Let’s—”

  She cut him off. “Quit steamrolling me. I do so need it.”

  She whirled around, dashed up the stairs and, five minutes later, glided back down wearing an antique-gold sweater-blouse and an ankle-length black-and-gold-patterned skirt with a slit high up one side. His gaze took in her hair hanging around her shoulders in a slightly unkempt fashion that, along with the big gold hoops that hung from her ears, gave her the look of a sexy siren. And all that in five minutes.

  He could feel his lips curl into a grin. “Damndest pocketbook I ever saw.”

  She tossed her head. “A gentleman doesn’t make such comments.”

  His grin threatened to erupt into a laugh. “What about an ordinary guy like me? Would he say something like that?”

  “You’re impossible,” she said, although she showed no sign of displeasure.

  He drove on Wilson Lane down to River Road, turned onto Garrison and from there to Connecticut Avenue.

  “You seem to know this town as well as if it were your backyard.”

  He brushed off the compliment with a shrug. “I’ve been trained to see what I look at, to be aware of everything around, below and above me, so I can can’t take credit for being observant. And that’s as good an opener as any for what I have to tell you.” He pulled up to The Igloo, parked, cut the motor and took her left hand in his.

  “Is this a brush-off?” she asked, her facial expression similar to a large question mark.

  “Nothing like that.” He gave her the facts, beginning with Stacey’s wish to visit Ricky. “You are not in danger, but the official advice is that you shouldn’t widen your circle of friends.”

  “You mean, go on as if this situation didn’t exist? That’s asking a lot.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. Apart from being careful, that’s what I’m doing. You’re in this because of your association with me, and you’ll be as well protected as I am. Don’t doubt that.”

  “I won’t ask what you do that has put you in this position.”

  Since she wasn’t asking, he saw no need to volunteer an answer. She didn’t speak again for a long time, merely sat there, seemingly lost in thought. His arm stole around her shoulder in a protective gesture, and when she snuggled closer to him, a softening, a longing stole into his heart, generating in him a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years and had hoped never to have again. She would never know how glad he was that they were not alone in her house.

  “I want a double cone of peach ice cream,” she said, and as the words left her lips, she eased out of his arms with a smile blooming on her face. The way a woman looked when she had a cherished secret. He wondered at that smile, for he saw nothing remotely amusing.

  Later, they sat in the car eating ice cream, she peach and he black raspberry. He punched a button, and immediately the sound of Mississippi John Hurt’s ancient voice and masterful guitar giving forth with “Nobody’s Business If I Do” filled the air.

  “I didn’t know you collected folk blues,” she said. “I like this, but I’ve always been partial to classic jazz.”

  “Oh, I enjoy that, too. What about opera and symphonic music? Like that?”

  “Basically, I love it, but I can do without some of it. The more modern it gets, the less I like it.”

  “Same here.” He watched her run her tongue around the edges of the ice cream and then lick her lips. He looked at the cone in his hand, closed his eyes and expelled a long breath. If he could just get that tongue into his mouth, he’d...”

  “I think I’ve had enough,” he told her. “Excuse me while I find a wastebasket.”

  “Wait a minute.” Her even white teeth sank into the cone, and she turned to him. “Taste this. It’s delicious.”

  He took the cone from her hand, tasted the ice cream and looked into the soft brown eyes that gazed up at him expectantly. Without thinking about it, he reached across her to the glove compartment, found a plastic bag, put their cones in it and dropped the bag on the floor.

  Her gaze still rested on his face. Tremors shook him as he enclosed her in his embrace and lowered his head. Her lips opened to him and his own groan startled him as he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She gripped his head and sucked his tongue deeply into her, moaning, pulling him in deeper. When her breath came in pants, his fingers went to the hem of her sweater, so eager was he to taste again the sweetness of her beaded nipple. But his senses kicked in, and after breaking the kiss, he held her to him and leaned his head against the back of the seat.

  They were in his car beneath the streetlight, and he’d almost committed a serious faux pas. “I didn’t mean to start that here in public. That’s not my style, Audrey.”

  “Nor mine. I forgot where we were. At the moment, you were between me and the world.” She shifted to her side of the car. “Looks as if bucket seats haven’t circumvented making out in cars.”

  He sat forward and ignited the engine. “Not by a long shot. By the way, you’ve given me several IOUs. Don’t be surprised if I decide to cash in. Ready to go?”

  “You can’t ‘cash in,’ as you put it, without my cooperation. I’m ready to go.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m counting on. There’s nothing one-sided about this, and you know that as well as I do.” He believed in calling it as he saw it. “You want me, and I want you.”

  Her shrug didn’t fool him, nor did her words when she said, “I’ve wanted a lot of things I didn’t allow myself to have. So don’t be so sure.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m not going any farther than your front door,” he said when they reached her house. “If I step into that foyer with you, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure I spend the night.” She gasped and lowered her gaze. “Better get on in there. I’ll wait here until I hear the lock turn.”

  Looking less than happy, she opened the door, walked in and closed it. A second later, before she could lock the door, her screams pierced the air.

  Chapter 6

  He stopped dead in his tracks, whirled around and raced back to the front door. He didn’t ring the bell or knock, but gave the door the full force of his two hundred and six pounds, and it yielded at once. Thank God she hadn’t had time to double-lock the door.

  “What... What on earth?” He nearly stumbled over her. Remembering her reaction to darkness, he flicked on the light and saw that she had tripped over the ficus tree that stood beside the door. He knelt, lifted her into his arms and cradled her body to his. Perspiration beaded his forehead and his shirt clung to his damp body. He hadn’t prayed since the night his helicopter crashed, but he found wor
ds to express his thanks that she was unharmed. With his eyes closed he rocked her.

  “That must have scared the beejeebers out of you. What’s this thing doing on the floor?” he said, when he trusted himself to speak.

  She appeared calm, but her staccatolike breathing belied it. “It fell on me when I stepped inside. I thought someone had grabbed me, and with that man stalking us... Well, you may imagine what I thought.”

  He helped her to her feet, picked the tree up and stationed it in the hall beside the telephone table. “I expect you were terrified. Will you be all right now?” He didn’t want to leave her. But neither did he want to seduce a woman who was at his mercy. “Would you like to go home with me? At least you won’t be alone.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  He checked the lock. “Seems okay.”

  “I hadn’t locked the door.” She dusted the back of her skirt, though he saw no reason for it. “I appreciate your concern and that you came back here to check on me, but I’m sure I’ll be all right.”

  “If you’re sure.” It could have been his imagination, or maybe her usual aplomb had only momentarily deserted her, but she seemed defenseless. Exposed. Vulnerable. Seeing her that way aroused in him a need to protect her, intensifying the physical desire that had rumbled in him since she’d opened her door to Ricky and him earlier in the afternoon. He didn’t need a degree in mathematics to understand that the combination was lethal for his self-control.

  “Yes. I’m sure. And...thanks.”

  “I’d better check the place out,” he said, when it occurred to him that someone could have moved the ficus tree from its usual place, causing it to fall when she opened the door. After checking every part of the house, including her back deck, he made his way back to her. She hadn’t moved.

  He observed her carefully, her facial expression, her stance, the tilt of her head, the truth in her eyes and, convinced that she meant for him to leave, he reached for the door.

  “Oooh!” He grabbed his right shoulder, frowning and wincing, unable to hide his reaction.