Summer Jazz

by Webb, Peggy

  And so, in order to keep her identity intact, Mattie reinvented her mother. She closed her eyes to a part of the truth, shutting out all that was bad, and concentrated on the bright moments of her youth. She conjured up the carrousel rides and the birthday pony and the summer picnics. She created for herself an ordinary mother, one she could love and imitate.

  o0o

  The first week Mattie was gone, Hunter was reasonable and sensible and mature. He told himself that he would give her the time she needed, that he would cope with her absence by staying busy. He jogged till his legs threatened to buckle and swam till his arms were too heavy to move. He spent so much time at work Uncle Mickey accused him of sleeping at the office.

  The second week was harder. He took to muttering to himself, and he had all-night marathons of cartoon watching.

  Uncle Mickey complained that a body couldn't get a decent night's sleep for the racket from Bugs Bunny. He claimed if he heard that rabbit scream, "What's up, Doc?" one more time in the middle of the night, he'd personally shoot the TV.

  But the final indignity came when Hunter put the newspaper in the washing machine with Uncle Mickey's favorite, peppermint-striped pajamas.

  "You've ruined them," Uncle Mickey said, holding up his pitiful pajamas. Their once-proud stripes were blackened with printer's ink. Bits of gooey paper clung to them. "They look like they have smallpox."

  "Sorry," Hunter said. "I had my mind on other things."

  "Mattie."

  "Yes."

  "When's she coming back?"

  "I don't know. I haven't heard from her."

  "Then what are you doing, sitting here in Dallas? Get your butt on a plane to Paris before we all go crazy."

  o0o

  Hunter did exactly that. The first thing he saw after he landed in Paris was a picture of Mattie, wearing a policeman's hat and a bikini hardly big as a handkerchief, directing traffic on the Boulevard des Capucines.

  He grinned. "At least she's not moping."

  It took him exactly forty minutes to get from the airport to Mattie's apartment.

  When her doorbell rang, Mattie was sitting in a tub filled with bubbles.

  "Bother," she muttered as she stepped out of the tub. Without pausing for a wrap, she ran to the front door, leaving a trail of soap bubbles. "Whoever you are, go away," she called through the door. "I'm not receiving callers today."

  "I'm not a caller, Mattie. I'm your future husband."

  Excitement exploded in her. She put her hand on the door chain, then pulled it back. She wasn't ready to face Hunter. And she certainly wasn't ready to face a future. Right now she was living for the moment.

  "Go away, Hunter."

  "Mattie." He rattled the doorknob. "Let me in."

  "No."

  He stood outside her apartment considering his options. He could kick the door down, but that wouldn't remedy her stubbornness. He could stand here and keep pestering her, hoping she would relent, but that wasn't his style. Suddenly he smiled. He had always preferred a flamboyant approach, and what he had in mind should send her barriers tumbling. It might even send her scurrying for cover.

  "This is war, Mattie," he said through the door. "Get ready to have your citadels penetrated."

  She couldn't help but grin. "Whatever happened to my door to paradise?"

  She waited and listened, but there was no reply. Finally she looked through the peephole. Hunter was no longer there.

  o0o

  Hunter didn't waste any time. He hired a private detective that day, and every move Mattie made was reported to him.

  "She's attending the opera tonight," Claude Leveque told him the next morning. "Mozart's Don Giovanni. Her escort is Jean-Louis Rameau. He has a box at the Opera." Claude, a fastidious little man, wiped a bead of perspiration from his moustache, carefully refolded his immaculate handkerchief, and continued his report. "Jean-Louis is curator at the National Museum of Modern Art. He's forty-eight, a widower, and has two grown children and six cats. He and his live-in housekeeper Monique have been engaged in a fifteen-year dalliance.”

  He handed Hunter a picture. “This is a snapshot of him entering the museum.”

  "Skinny devil," Hunter commented. "What in the world does she see in him?"

  "He's rich, old family money. And he has quite a reputation with the ladies. Smooth, fast talking, a veritable—"

  "That was a rhetorical question. I don't want to hear about his bedroom exploits." He took the report from Claude. "Good work. There's no need for you to follow her tonight. I’ll be with her."

  "Shall I expect to resume trailing the lady tomorrow morning?"

  He hoped not. Tomorrow morning he expected to be occupying the lady's bed.

  "I’ll call you if I need you again."

  When Mattie came out the front door of her apartment building, Hunter felt as if a Roman candle had exploded inside him. Her sheer French silk gown fit like sin on a fallen angel. It was green, like her eyes. The satin slip underneath left so much skin bare, it must have been an afterthought. Diamantes, attached to sheer chiffon, were sprinkled over her arms and shoulders, beckoning across the hot night to him. Her hair, caught high in an emerald clip, cascaded down her shoulders.

  It took all his willpower to keep from running across the street and snatching her out of Jean-Louis Rameau's clutches. Hunter followed boldly behind Rameau’s car, even tailgating on occasion. That smitten Frenchman wouldn't have noticed if a military parade were in his wake. Who would, with the intoxicating Mattie at his side?

  Hunter parked near them and watched until they had entered the Opera and he was certain they had time to be seated. Then he slipped inside and gave an amiable looking, gray haired usher an obscene amount of money to take a message to Jean-Luis Rameau that his housekeeper Monique needed him to rush home right away.

  When Jean-Louis hurried into the lobby, Hunter slid into the theater and slipped into the empty seat beside Mattie.

  "It's you!" she exclaimed. The expression on her face was a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

  "An improvement, don't you think?" He spread his long legs so his thigh was touching hers.

  Mattie glanced at the adjoining boxes. She was certain their stage whispers were disrupting the entire theater. She needn't have been concerned. The rollicking scene onstage had completely captivated the audience's attention. "You can't stay here," she whispered fiercely.

  He tucked a curl behind her ear. "Don't worry, princess. I plan to adjourn to your apartment as quickly as possible." He leaned over and kissed the tender spot next to the curl.

  "Jean-Louis is waiting for me at his house. He had to rush home.”

  "He’ll be busy for quite a while trying to figure things out.”

  "You’re the one responsible for that message."

  "Creating a diversion is one of my many talents." He started massaging the back of her neck. "Do you want to see the rest of them?"

  "You ought to be arrested."

  "I probably would be if the police knew what I was thinking." He nibbled her ear. "You want to see the rest of my talents, Mattie?"

  "Stop that. You're ruining the opera."

  "I'm hoping to ruin our reputations." He pulled the emerald clip from her hair, which he let cascade over his arm. "I'd like to walk barefoot through your hair."

  "I'd like to do something else with my bare foot."

  "I love it when you're angry. Your eyes glitter like cat's eyes." He twisted a strand of her shining hair around his hand.

  Mattie had thought she could endure his preposterous remarks. She'd thought she could watch the rest of the opera and then leave with dignity, leave Hunter sitting there wishing he'd never come. But she couldn't. His presence brought back all the things she was trying to forget—their love, their promises, her mother's betrayal. He weakened her resolve to live for the moment and made her question her decision to deal with hurt by pretending it didn't exist. She'd thought she could come to Paris and live a carefree life, not
making commitments, not forming attachments.

  She turned to face him. He was so heart-stoppingly gorgeous, he made her lose her breath. He wore his tuxedo and his charm with such careless grace he might have invented them both. Oh, Hunter. Why did you come here? Why couldn't you let me go?

  He seemed to be reading her thoughts. He smiled, and that, too, was devastating. She stood up, dumping her program onto the floor.

  "I'm leaving."

  "Good."

  He matched her stride for stride as she left the box.

  She turned on him. "Go away."

  "Never. You once told me never to let you forget that you love me. I'm keeping that promise."

  "I don't want to hear it. I can't deal with it right now."

  "If you don't deal with it now, you never will."

  "Leave me alone." She lifted her skirts and drew back a lethal leg.

  "Mattie!" He was too fast for her. Before she'd aimed her kick, he scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder.

  She pounded his back. "Put me down."

  "Only if you promise to behave."

  "Never!"

  They attracted more than a little attention as they left the theater. She was a celebrity and he was devilishly handsome. A few of Mattie's fans, who took great delight in following all her escapades, remarked that it looked as if she had met her match.

  They encountered one reluctant patron of the arts in the lobby. He blocked Hunter's path.

  "Excush me. Ish that caterwauling finish?"

  "It's not over yet," Hunter told him. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get the wife home. She's dead on her feet." He patted Mattie's backside.

  She kicked his thigh.

  The man seemed to notice Mattie for the first time. "Shay. How'd she get up there?"

  "She climbed. Can't keep her off me. She's wild about me."

  Mattie retaliated by pinching his leg.

  He swatted her butt. "She's a regular little hellcat."

  The man reeled aside, laughing. "Marsha won't believe thish. The besh show wash in the lobby."

  Hunter strode out the door and to the parking lot. He didn't put Mattie down until he got to his car. Opening the door with one hand, he dumped her onto the front seat.

  "This is kidnapping, you bully."

  "Remember what happened the last time I kidnapped you? You loved it, Mattie."

  "I’ll open the window and scream."

  "With your reputation, nobody will pay any attention."

  She knew that was true. Besides, nobody would bother to involve himself in her affairs. That was one of the things she'd always loved about Paris. People minded their own business.

  As Hunter whizzed through the streets toward her apartment, she clung to her indignation, hoping it would insulate her against the powerful attraction she felt for Hunter.

  "You can bulldoze your way into my apartment," she said when they reached her building. "You can hug me, you can kiss me, you can even have your way with me—"

  He roared with laughter. "Such an old-fashioned term coming from such a modern day hellcat."

  "It's not funny, Hunter. Stop laughing."

  Suddenly he was serious. He reached over and covered her hand with his. "If 1 don't keep laughing I'm liable to cry, Mattie. I'm not going to let you pretend that I don't exist."

  "I'm not pretending."

  "Yes, you are. It seems to be the only way you can deal with what your mother did."

  She covered her ears. "I don't want to hear it."

  Hunter felt a cold shiver of defeat. He'd hoped to avoid this subject until he had Mattie back in his arms. He'd hoped to rebuild trust and love with affection. He'd planned to show her that she could turn to him, even with this problem. "You've got to face it sometime, Mattie," he said quietly.

  "I can't. I can't deal with anything except how I feel."

  "How do you feel?"

  "Empty. Betrayed. Used."

  "I'm here for you. Lean on me, Mattie."

  "No." She clenched her hands and glared at him. "Don't you understand? You remind me too much of what she did. Every time I see you, I think of her treachery." She pounded her hands on his shoulder. "I hate her. I hate my own mother. Nobody can change that."

  "I understand your rage. And I'm glad you can vent some of it on me." He parked the car in front of her apartment and turned to look at her. "My shoulders are broad; they can take a pounding." He grinned. "As long as you stay away from the family jewels."

  "I'm sorry about that, Hunter. Did it hurt much?"

  "Not any more than if King Kong had used me for a volleyball." He pulled her into his arms. He could feel the tension in her stiff back and unyielding shoulders. "We need each other, Mattie. Your rage will pass, and when it does, I want to be there at your side."

  His tenderness almost penetrated her shell of resolve. She was almost persuaded that there was still room in her heart for love. But the images of those damning pictures burned through her memory, and she knew there wasn't. Rage consumed her. Each day she woke up to the searing knowledge that she hated her own mother. The only way she could endure such knowledge was to live on the cutting edge of excitement, live as if nothing mattered but selfish pursuits in a cruel world.

  She pushed against his shoulder. "No, Hunter."

  "I won't let you go."

  He kissed her swiftly, before she could turn away. Everything about the kiss was tender—the gentle touch of his lips, the sweet coaxing of his tongue, even the way he held her. The kiss gave everything and demanded nothing. Because of that, she couldn't turn away. She leaned into him. She felt safe. She felt protected. For the moment, she gave herself up to the haven of Hunter's arms.

  The kiss lasted until her bones had turned to liquid, until the imprint of him was tattooed on her heart. It lasted until he had almost mounted the battlements of her hurt and penetrated the citadels of her pretense. It lasted until there was no air left in the hot car to breathe.

  He pulled back and looked down at her. "I need you, Mattie. We need each other."

  "No. Don't you understand? I can't love and hate at the same time."

  "You don't have to. Just be, and let time heal your wounds."

  All the hatred—and the love—she felt for her mother burst inside her, and she pushed Hunter away.

  "Go home, Hunter."

  "No."

  "I have to deal with this my way."

  "Your way excludes me. I won't be left out of your life, Mattie. Not for a few weeks, not for a few days, not even for a few hours."

  "You have no choice. My door is closed to you."

  "Your apartment door or your door to paradise?"

  He smiled at her. It was a smile of such charm, such persuasion, that she almost fell back into his arms.

  "Both," she said.

  He caught her hands. "I'm not asking for any promises. I'm not asking that you keep any appointed schedule. I'm simply asking that you let me be a part of your life. I want to share your pain as well as your joy."

  "Words. Those are just pretty words, Hunter." She pulled her hands away. "I know about pretty words. My mother was a master of them."

  "I'm not your mother, Mattie. Those are not just pretty words." He caught her shoulders. "I love you. Nothing's going to change that."

  "Can't you see? There's too much inside me now, too much pain and ugliness. I can't give you what you want. I can't be anything to you."

  "I'm not asking that you give, Mattie. Not right now. I'm asking you to receive. I want you to accept my support."

  "No. I have to be free. I don't want any reminders of the past." She put her hand on the door handle. "Go back to Dallas, Hunter, where you belong."

  "I belong wherever you are. And that's how it's going to be. You won't get rid of me that easily. I'm not Jean-Louis Rameau."

  His stubbornness suddenly made her angry. Why couldn't he see things her way? If he loved her so, why didn't he respect her wishes? In her confusion and ire she reached for
the most effective weapon she knew, a brittle woman-of-the-world facade.

  "How do you know I plan to get rid of Jean-Louis? I hear he's quite talented in bed."

  Hunter's eyes turned blacker than sin. "Don't start that game with me."

  She shoved open the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Bending over, she made her parting shot. "Maybe it's no game. Maybe I'm proving the old adage: like mother, like daughter."

  "You're not Victoria!"

  She didn't bother to reply. She didn't even bother to close the car door. She turned and walked quickly into her apartment building. The slam of the door resounded through the summer night.

  o0o

  While most of Paris slept, two restless people paced their floors. Mattie thought of Victoria's betrayal and kicked her dressing table. Hunter thought of Mattie's stubbornness and struck his desk. Mattie remembered the feel of Hunter's arms and hugged her pillow. Hunter remembered the taste of Mattie's lips and gazed out the window.

  "I'll be so wicked, he’ll go back to Dallas in disgust," Mattie told the walls of her apartment. "Then I’ll be free."

  "I’ll be so persistent, she won't be able to shut me out," Hunter told the walls of his hotel room. "Then we’ll be happy."

  Having come to those conclusions, the star-crossed lovers climbed into their separate beds.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "When will you be back, Hunter?"

  The long distance line crackled, and Hunter held the receiver away from his ear before answering.

  "Not until I settle this thing with Mattie, Uncle Mickey."

  "Katz has doubled its order for skater babies but wants them all by Thanksgiving. Our new ad director is chomping at the bit because he can't go ahead on the new campaign without your okay. Our assembly line is chaotic with all those new designs going through, and a woman named Kathleen Forbes Clynton is worrying your secretary to a frazzle trying to locate you."

  Hunter glared at the receiver as if it were responsible for all the bad news. "Get Kurt down to the assembly line to straighten that out. I’ll call him about hiring new people to handle the Katz order. Air-express the ad campaign to me and I’ll handle it here. Tell Kathleen my tennis racket injury is permanent."