Summer Storm

by Joan Wolf

  “Actually, I wasn’t,” she returned slowly. “I was trained for scholarship. Scholars usually teach so they can eat, not necessarily because they like it.”

  His eyes were looking deeply into hers. “Did you like it?”

  Her lips curled a little at the corners. “Not particularly,” she said.

  His eyes smiled back. “Money isn’t a problem, sweetheart. We have plenty of that. If you want to write books, you go right ahead. You don’t have to worry about a roof over your head. You can have a housekeeper—a cook—a secretary—whatever you want.”

  Mary blinked. “Goodness. Do you have all those people?”

  “No. I have housekeeper who is extremely crabby but a good cook. We’ll have to find another house, though. You’d hate the one I have now.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s ghastly,” he said cheerfully. “I bought it from some starlet—bought it furnished. I kind of just close my eyes to the inside of it. I took it because it was isolated and I liked the view.”

  “But why didn’t you redo it?” she asked wonderingly.

  “I don’t know. It didn’t seem as if it was worth the effort.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Three years.”

  “Three years!” She stared at him in astonishment. “You’ve lived in a house you hate for three years and haven’t tried to change it?”

  He grinned a little lopsidedly. “It was just a place to hang my clothes and park my car. It never felt like a home. No place feels like a home if you’re not there.”

  “Oh, Kit.” The words were barely a whisper. She put down her fork and looked at him. “I’ll make a home for you, darling.”

  “I’d like that,” he said simply. “Are you sure you don’t mind giving up your university job? Won’t you miss the contact with all those famous academics?”

  “I don’t think so,” she replied thoughtfully. “I think I might do better at a younger, less venerable institution. All the professors at my place are so—stodgy.”

  “Even Leonard Fergusson?” He sounded incredulous. Leonard Fergusson was the chairman of her department and a world-renowned scholar.

  “I think he’s getting old,” she replied frankly. “He suffers from a certain inflexibility of thought, which sometimes approaches petrification. He also frequently exhibits a disturbing inability to recognize what century he is living in.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “How on earth did he ever hire you?” he asked when he had got his breath back.

  “The English department didn’t have enough women. They have only one tenured female professor, can you believe it? I was to be his second token woman.”

  “Well, one thing California isn’t is stodgy,” he said cheerfully. He put down his knife and fork and looked with satisfaction at his empty plate. “That was good.”

  Mary was only halfway through her steak. “Tell me about California,” she said.

  “It can be lovely,” he answered promptly. “I think this time I’d like to look for a house on the ocean. Would you like that?”

  “I’d love it,” she answered.

  “Maybe I’ll get a boat. Like your father’s.”

  Her lips curved tenderly. “That would be fun.”

  “Yes, it would be. It could be a very decent life, Mary. Not everyone in California is a flake, or a drug addict, you know. Or a movie star.”

  “Contrary to what my mother thinks,” she murmured, and he laughed. “But would we have any privacy, Kit?” All through dinner she had been aware of the watching eyes that surrounded them.

  “Money can buy an awful lot,” he said a little bitterly. “It can even buy privacy.”

  “I suppose so,” she replied dubiously.

  Coffee was served. As she drank it she tried once again to ignore the pressure of watching eyes.

  “Have you finished?” Kit asked.

  “Yes,” she said. They rose and walked back across the restaurant floor—through the battery of staring eyes.

  She watched him as he drove back toward campus, watched his long-fingered, sensitive hands as they competently held the wheel, watched his profile, watched his mouth. There is a curious combination of ruthlessness and vulnerability about that mouth, she thought. “What do you think of Margot Chandler?” she asked curiously.

  He smiled a little in the darkness of the car. “She’s not a bad sort, really. I’ve met worse.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that she’s basically a decent person, that she means no harm to anyone, and that she has an affectionate heart.”

  “Oh,” said Mary rather blankly.

  He glanced at her sideways. “What do you think of her?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered carefully. “Her surface is so bright and hard that I haven’t been able to get through anywhere. She’s the most sophisticated person I’ve ever met.”

  “Sophisticated,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose that is a good way to describe her.”

  “What word would you use?” she asked, looking at him closely.

  “Worldly,” he answered promptly. “Like so many Hollywood people, she believes that good can come out of evil, that lies might be better than truth, that the end justifies the means.”

  “Good God,” Mary said faintly. “I thought you said she was basically decent.”

  “She is—basically. But she’s been corrupted. The world does that to people—and the Hollywood world more than most, I suppose.”

  “You sound very cynical.”

  They had reached the college gates by now and he swung in, accelerating smoothly up the long drive. “I’m not, really.” They came to a halt in front of his cottage. It was about ten-thirty. “How about a walk?” he asked.

  “That sounds marvelous,” she returned. They had always loved to walk together, and being carless, they had done a lot of it in their early married life. “Let me change my clothes first,” she said.

  When she came back out of her cottage in sneakers and jeans, she found he was before her, similarly attired. “I found a nice path up through the woods the other morning,” he said. “It’s too dark to take it now, but I’ll show it to you sometime.”

  She shook her head at him. “You missed your calling, Kit. In some other age you would have been an explorer.”

  “I would have loved that,” he said as he took her hand. “Do you know, I was thinking of doing a movie about David Livingston?” They began to walk down the road together.

  “Livingston,” she said slowly, on a note of surprise. She thought for a minute. “He was quite a complicated character. Was he a saint or an egomaniac? Or a combination of the two?”

  “I should think a good movie would show him as a little of both.”

  “Yes. Do you have a script?” “Not yet. I’ve been thinking of setting up my own production company. I’d have to borrow some money. There’s no way I’m going to touch all my nice safe little investments. But I have a few million free to play around with.”

  “A few million.” She laughed. “I can’t quite take it in, Kit. When I think of all the hamburger we used to eat!”

  “I know.” He put his hand, which was still holding hers, into the pocket of his windbreaker. “But they were the happiest days of my life—those hamburger days.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Mine too.”

  The sound of music drifted to them. It was coming from the direction of the rec room. They could hear a chorus of lusty young voices raised in song.

  “Do you want to go over there?” she asked.

  “No.” He grimaced a little. “I thought perhaps the college atmosphere here would make me feel like a student again. Instead it’s made me feel a million years old.”

  She laughed. “You aren’t exactly a geriatric case, darling, but I know what you mean.”

  They walked down to the lake and sat for a while in the empty lawn chairs, looking out at the still water. Then they walked back toward
the cottages, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, their steps, from long practice, in perfect unison. The students were still singing in the rec room when Mary and Kit walked together into her cottage and went to bed.

  Mary woke as the first gray light of dawn was filling the room. She looked at Kit, sleeping peacefully beside her in the double bed. It frightened her a little, what the sight of him did to her. When she was near him she was no longer Dr. O’Connor, the cool, clear-thinking, intelligent, dispassionate scholar. That persona, so carefully built up and nurtured for the last four years, crumbled like straw at the touch of his hand.

  She had burned her last bridge last night when she told him she would go to California with him. All that was left now was to send in her resignation. The university would have no problem replacing her; half the academic world would give their right arms for the chance to teach there. And Leonard Fergusson would have confirmed all his prejudices about the untrustworthiness of women teachers.

  Why was she so reluctant to write that letter? For she was, and in the gray morning light she realized that she still wasn’t completely easy about her decision to go back to Kit. She adored him, but she didn’t quite trust him and she hadn’t quite forgiven him either. They never spoke about the baby and she knew that until they did, until they laid that sad little ghost to rest, that their marriage would never rest on solid ground. Yet for the life of her she could not bring the subject up. The wound had almost healed, but the scar still ached.

  “Good morning,” said a deep sleepy voice in her ear.

  She turned her head and smiled at him. The smile was a little painful but he didn’t seem to notice. “One of the things I’ve missed most is the way you warm up the bed,” she said after a minute. “It’s chilly sleeping alone.”

  “If it’s up to me, you’ll never sleep alone again,” he answered.

  She sighed a little and snuggled down under the covers next to him. “That was a melancholy sound,” he murmured, and putting his arms around her, he pulled her close. She rested her head against his shoulder and put an arm around him in return. The muscles of his back felt hard and strong under her hand. They were neither of them wearing any clothes.

  “This is not a position that is conducive to rest,” he murmured after a minute.

  “No? I’m comfortable.” She closed her eyes.

  “Are you, sweetheart?” His hand began to move slowly up and down her back, curving down now and then to caress her hip. She felt a throb deep within her.

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “All right,” he answered softly. “How about this?” He knew exactly where to touch her, exactly how to arouse her. But for some inexplicable reason she did not want to make love now. She pulled away from him a little, but that only gave him room to bend his head and begin to kiss her breasts.

  She lay perfectly still as he caressed her body, willing herself to stay separate and apart from him, trying to ignore the rising tumult of her senses. She did not want to give him what he wanted from her; this time at least she would make him take it. She had already given him too much.

  “Mary . . .” His shoulders over her blotted out the rest of the room. “Love me,” he whispered. She looked up into his eyes, black and glittering; his face was hard with desire. The angry core of separateness within her began to dissolve under his look. They stayed poised like that for a long minute, their eyes locked together. “Love me,” he said again. And very very slowly she opened her legs.

  As the power and the wonder of him came into her she closed her eyes. It was impossible to deny him, to deny herself; and she arched up against him, lost as always in the flooding majesty of his love. Passion flamed through her blood and thought receded as together they scaled the heights and came, shudderingly, to rest together.

  He lay for a long time afterward with his arms locked tightly about her, as if he felt her slipping away and he would hold her to him, by force if necessary.

  “It’s getting late,” she said at last.

  “All right.” He let her go and rolled over on his back. “For how long are we going to go on playing this game, Mary?”

  She put her arm across her eyes to block out his darkly impatient face. “Let me tell my parents before we do anything public,” she said.

  “Will you call them today?”

  “All right.” She took her hand away and watched him dress. She felt suddenly ashamed of herself. After all, as he kept pointing out so reasonably, they were married. She was behaving like an idiot. She slipped out of bed, pulled her white terry-cloth robe around her and belted it. “Poor darling,” she said. “I know I’ve been unreasonable. I’ll call them today, I promise.” She put her arm through his and walked with him to the door.

  “I may sound like a terrible male chauvinist, but it bothers the hell out of me to see you with other men and not be able to show myself as the ‘man in possession.’ ”

  “That does sound terribly like a male chauvinist,” she said softly. “But I love you anyway.” He had opened the porch door and was standing framed in the doorway. She reached up on tiptoe to kiss him. His arms came around her.

  There was a flash of light and then another one. Mary felt Kit’s body stiffen and then he pushed her away from him. She stared in numbed astonishment. Out on the road in front of them was Jason Razzia, with his camera.

  Kit cursed under his breath, a word she had never heard him use before. His eyes were wild with anger, and with the swiftness of a panther he was down the porch steps and running toward the photographer.

  Jason Razzia backed up toward the woods as he saw Kit coming. Then he turned to run, but he wasn’t quick enough. A lean, hard hand shot out and grabbed him by the shoulder. The other hand pulled the camera from him and sent it smashing down against a rock.

  “Hey!” said Razzia. “You can’t do that.”

  “I just did it,” said Kit. “And I’ll smash your head in the same way if you don’t clear out of here.” His searing anger had such force that for the first time since childhood Razzia found himself physically afraid of another person. He tried to pull away from Kit’s iron grip.

  “I’m g-going,” he stuttered. Murder was looking at him out of Kit’s dark eyes.

  “And stay away from my wife,” said Kit between his teeth. His voice was low and absolutely menacing. “If I catch you anywhere around her, I’ll kill you. Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah. Chris. Yeah, I hear you. Sorry. I’m going . . .” Razzia was shaking now and Kit shoved him toward the woods.

  “Get out of here, you scum.” Razzia ran.

  Slowly, very slowly, Kit swung around and looked at his wife. She was still in the doorway of the porch and he could see from where he was standing that she was shivering. He cursed again, silently, bent to pick up the shattered camera, and then walked back to where she stood. Instinctively, she backed away from him. He stopped. “It had to happen in front of you,” he said. Anyone who did not know him would not have heard the fierce anger that lay under the flat tone. “Any other woman in the world would have gotten a cheap thrill out of that. But not you.”

  Mary’s eyes were dark in her white face. Her hands were clutched, protectively, on the front of her robe, holding it together. Kit had himself under control now, but he still wore the menacing aspect a male assumes when he is really angry. She was afraid of him.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said in a calmer voice.

  “No.” She backed up onto the porch. “No, It’s no good. Kit. I couldn’t stand it. Photographers snooping around, peeking in my bedroom window. It’s horrible!”

  He followed her into the porch. “You don’t mean that. One little incident like this can’t make any difference between you and me.”

  “It does,” she replied shakily.

  His hand grasped her shoulder and she winced at the pressure of his fingers. “You only say that because you’re upset.”

  “I am upset,” she said. “But I mean it. I can’t go back to you. Kit
. I can’t.”

  He let her go. His mouth looked taut and thin. “I’m not going to beg you, Mary.” His voice was deeply bitter.

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “If this is your final decision, I’ll abide by it.”

  “Oh, God, Kit,” she cried. “Will you please just go?”

  He dropped his hand from her shoulder, turned and walked out the door. She went inside and collapsed in a shivering heap on the sofa.

  After a long time she got up and went in to shower. It was Sunday, she realized in stunned surprise. She would have to go to Mass.

  She dried her hair, put on a print summer-dress, and walked out to her car. She felt numb. It was a state that continued all through the first part of the Mass, as she automatically made the responses, standing and sitting and kneeling like an automaton.

  When she came back from communion, she knelt and bowed her face between her hands. It was quiet in the church, with only the organ playing. Dear God, she prayed, help me. What have I done?

  It isn’t true, she thought, eyes closed, shut in on herself, it couldn’t be true that she had rejected Kit simply because a photographer had taken their picture. That ugly little scene had been the catalyst, not the cause, of her decision. Nor had she sent Kit away because he had punched out the despicable Razzia. It was something else, she realized.

  Communion was over and the congregation stood for the final blessing.. As the rest of the people in the church filed out Mary knelt back down. Once more she bowed her head. Her reaction to Kit this morning, she thought, had its roots deep in the past. She loved him, yes, but there was a dark side to his nature that she had encountered before and it was that aspect of him that she had recoiled from this morning.

  He had come into her life five years ago like some splendid young god, sweeping her off her balance, out of her safe, familiar setting and into the passionate, ecstatic world of sexual love. But she had found, as had so many unfortunate Greek maidens before her, that it is dangerous to love a god. Gods, as classical literature should have taught her, tend to look out primarily for their own self-interest.

  Kit had looked out for his, and at her expense. Contrary to what he claimed, he didn’t need her. He was the most frighteningly self-sufficient person she had ever known. If something or someone got in his way, he smashed it, as he had smashed that camera this morning.