by Webb, Peggy
“We didn’t need a thunderstorm tonight, did we?” She played with the curls that dipped across his forehead.
“We created our own.”
He traced her face with his fingertips. “I could kill them, you know.”
“Who?”
“Your other husbands.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve always considered you mine.” He hugged her close. “Always.”
“Even after you left me?”
“Yes. Even then.”
She pressed her forehead into the crook of his shoulder, underneath his chin. They stayed that way for a long, long time. Mick started stroking her back, the way he did so long ago, and she sighed.
“Mick...”
“Hmmm?”
“How long can you stay with us, with Casey and me?”
They shifted a little, and she turned her face so her cheek was pressed against his chest.
“As long as you need me, Tess. I don’t have anyplace special to go, and I certainly don’t have an important career waiting for me.”
She thought of herself, back in the club in Chicago, standing on the stage all alone, singing blues songs and meaning them, then going home to an empty bed and a cat.
“My career isn’t all that important.”
He pulled his head back so he could see her face. In the dark it was a pale, beautiful outline.
“How can you say that? It’s something you’ve worked for all your life. It’s something you’ve always wanted.”
“It’s not all I’ve wanted, Mick.” His eyes were so brilliant, so probing, she had to turn away. She feigned a huge yawn. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting sleepy.”
“Tess...” Mick caught her chin. “Don’t turn away from me.” He tugged her face around and they stared at each other for a long time.
What they had done dawned suddenly and simultaneously on them. He had reclaimed her, and she had let him. He called himself insane, and she called herself foolish.
It was too late to undo what had been done, but it was not too late to change the way things would be.
“You turned away first, Mick,” Tess whispered.
A boulder settled on Mick’s heart, and he let her
go.
“So I did, Tess.”
He put his arms around her and positioned them correctly on the bed, their heads at the headboard and their feet pointing south. They lay side by side, staring straight ahead into the darkness.
“Good night, Tess.”
“Good night, Mick.”
o0o
Mick woke up with such a sense of peace that for a moment he thought he was back in college. In those days with Tess at his side, loving him, he’d been invincible. Or so he had thought.
Strange he should wake up feeling invincible again.
He rolled over in his bed, and there she was—Tess, by his side once more. Seeing her in his bed filled him with such a sense of wellbeing, he laughed out loud.
She didn’t even stir. He tenderly brushed a strand of hair off her face, letting his hand linger on her soft cheek.
“Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?”
The soft rise and fall of her breathing was his only answer.
“Did you dream of me?” He traced the sensuous curve of her lips with his index finger. “Did you lie on your side of the bed and wish you were on mine?”
She burrowed into her pillow, still fast asleep.
“I did. I lay in the dark for two hours trying to justify moving to your side of the bed and knowing what heaven felt like once more.”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek; then he climbed out of bed. Last night had happened. He hadn’t meant it to, but it had anyhow. And now it was over and done with. The best thing to do was go on as if nothing had changed—and make damned sure it didn’t happen again.
“Ahhh, I’m such a noble man. Uncle Arthur would be disappointed if he could see me now.”
He reached for his jeans, disturbing the cat who had made them into a comfortable nest for himself. OToole arched his back and spit. Then, seeing it was only Flannigan, he leaped onto the bed and assumed his Buddha position beside his mistress.
“Lucky cat. You have a right to be there and I don’t.”
OToole gave him a wise Siamese smile, then leaned down and licked Tess’s shoulder. She moved. With another smile he licked her shoulder again.
“OToole?” Tess yawned and stretched, her eyes still closed. “Is that you?”
OToole purred. Tess came slowly out of her sleep, opening first one eye, and then the other. What she usually saw when she woke up was her cat. This morning the first thing she saw was Flannigan, standing in his shorts holding his jeans in one hand and her sequined shoes in the other.
“Well, good morning.” She smiled. And then because she felt so good, she laughed.
Mick thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He imagined what it would be like to wake up to her laughter every morning for the rest of his life.
“Top of the day to you.” He stuck one leg into his pants, never taking his eyes off her. “If I had known that was how to do it, I’d have done it myself.”
“Do what?”
“Wake you up. The cat licks your shoulder to wake you up.”
“I liked your way better, Flannigan.”
He stood with one pants leg on and one off, watching her. She merely smiled, arching her back and stretching like a great big, satisfied cat herself.
“Don’t play games with me, Tess.”
“I’m not playing games. I’m merely saying I liked your way better.”
His belt buckle thudded softly on carpet as he let go of his pants. Kicking them aside, he stalked to the bed. He leaned over her, forcing her backward against the pillows. Then he put one hand on either side of her, pinning her to the mattress.
“Close your eyes, Tess,” he said softly.
“Why?”
“So I can wake you up my way.”
Their eyes locked and held in mortal combat as they both struggled with passions that had never died and love that was fighting to be reborn.
“You wouldn’t,” she said finally.
“Wouldn’t I?”
“You’re too honorable.”
“An honorable man always gives a lady what she wants.”
A bead of sweat trickled from under her heavy hair and inched down the side of her face. Her entire body heated up, and she felt the sheet stick to her in damp patches.
Flannigan’s eyes roamed up and down her body, and everywhere his gaze touched, she grew hotter. She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But she didn’t care. She had survived being in his bed last night, and she was feeling bold and reckless. She wasn’t thinking about getting hurt again—only about how far she could go with him and still come out a winner. It was a game she was playing. A dangerous game. And she was breaking all the rules.
“I quite agree, Flannigan.” She smiled up at him from the pillows. “A man always gives a lady what she wants.”
“Then, tell me, Tess.” He leaned closer, so close his lips were almost touching hers. “What is it you want?”
“It’s awfully early in the morning for such a hard question. What time is it, Flannigan?”
“Time for the truth.” His lips brushed lightly against hers. “What do you want from me?”
“Hmmm, let me see.” Unconditional love, her mind was screaming. “What I want from you is two pieces of toast, lots of butter—real, not the artificial kind—and one egg, scrambled, and a bowl of whole-wheat cereal with strawberries on the top, and a very large, very cold orange juice. And I’d like it on a silver tray with a red rose.”
“You always did have the appetite of a stevedore... for all things.”
“You asked what I wanted, Flannigan. Now, are you going to satisfy me?”
Laughing, he lifted her off the bed and tossed her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Sh
e tried to wiggle off, but he held her still with one hand across her bottom and one hand on her legs.
“Tess, my girl, I’m going to give you everything you want.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
He carried her into the bathroom and stepped into the shower.
“Flannigan, are you crazy?”
“With you, I am.” He let her slide down his body, and when she was on her feet, he tipped up her chin and smiled at her. “You always did want a shower before breakfast. Especially after a night like last night.”
He turned on the water, then shifted her around, reached for the soap, and began to lather her back. She shivered with pleasure.
“A little to the left, Flannigan. You missed a spot.”
He smiled at a spot high on the shower wall. She was as high-spirited as an Irish filly. He began to hum a tune. She joined in, and soon they were harmonizing, singing snatches of the words, getting them wrong, laughing, and going on with the song anyhow.
When the shower was over, he wrapped her in a huge towel, carried her back to the bed, and propped her up against the headboard.
“Don’t move from that spot.” He dressed quickly and started toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
With his hand on the doorknob, he turned and grinned.
“Are you going to miss me while I’m gone?”
“Of course not.” She tossed her damp hair back from her face. “I never miss the men who come and go in my life, Flannigan. I merely replace them.”
“You’ll have to move fast this time, for I’ll be back soon.”
He slipped through the door and eased it shut behind him. Tess sat on the bed staring at the door for a long time.
“OToole, what in the world am I going to do about Flannigan?”
She stretched on the bed. His pillow was still dented where he had laid his head. She drew the pillow into her arms and hugged it close.
“You’ll leave me again, won’t you?” She pressed her cheek against his pillow. “Just like the last time. Do you love me, Flannigan?”
Not enough to stay, she thought. Last night had changed nothing.
“Damn you, Mick Flannigan.” She flung the pillow across the room. “You won’t get to me this time.” She hugged her arms around herself, and suddenly they weren’t her arms: They were his. She longed for him. She wanted him there by her side, in her arms, at any cost.
“Damn you.” She rose from the bed, magnificent in her rage, and the towel slipped to the floor unnoticed. “I can spend every minute of every day making love with you, and still you can walk away and I won’t care. I won’t.”
She stalked across the room and jerked her clothes out of a suitcase. OToole, sensing a storm, gave her a wide berth.
“You’re just another man.” Her hands trembled as she slipped into her blouse. A tear splashed her cheek as she reached for her buttons. “You’re just another ordinary man, Mick Flannigan.”
o0o
Flannigan was whistling when he opened the door to his motel unit. Casey sat in the room’s only chair, dressed in his baggy tuxedo, his beard and hair slicked down with water.
“Did you get up early or are you coming in late?” Casey asked.
“Are you going to be a nosy old man?” Mick came into the room, smiling, ripping his T-shirt over his head.
“Maybe I worry. Good to have somebody to worry about.”
“Don’t get too attached. We’ll be finding your real son soon.” He pulled a clean T-shirt on, and turned to give Casey a frank stare. “Isn’t that right, Casey?”
Casey shifted in his chair, then lifted his chin and stared back at Mick, blue eyes boring into blue eyes.
“That’s right. Pretty soon I’ll have me a real family. A son of my very own. Who knows? Maybe even a beautiful little daughter-in-law. Babies too.” As he warmed to his subject, his eyes began to twinkle. “I’m going to have lots of grandbabies, the fat, happy kind I can dandle on my knee.”
Mick ran his hands through his hair and sat on the edge of the dresser, watching the old man.
“Who are you, Casey?”
“Yesterday I was a lonely old man living in a cardboard box.”
“Before that?”
“I’m southern aristocracy, educated at Yale, then Juilliard. I’ve conducted some of the finest symphonies in the world.”
“How did you get from the podium to a box in the park?”
“It was a long and hard journey, via the bottle, but I’m clean and sober now.”
“And your family?”
“Dead. Every one of them. I’m the only one left.”
He was telling the truth. Mick could tell by the straightforward look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Casey.”
“My own doing. I took a few wrong turns along the way.”
Casey twirled his cane round and round, while Mick stared at the spinning gold top.
“Just so we understand each other, Casey.... I’m sticking around to see that Tess doesn’t get hurt. I don’t want you taking a wrong turn at her expense.”
“Didn’t you hurt her once?”
“What do you know?”
“Maybe I’m just guessing.”
It was too much on target to be just a guess, but Mick decided to let it pass. For now.
“Just remember, I’ll be watching you.”
“I’ll be watching you too, Flannigan.”
They faced each other down, and then they both began to chuckle.
“You’re a sly old bird,” Flannigan said.
“Wait till you see me fly.”
“You’re going to get your chance—starting now. Can you drive.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Flannigan pulled a wad of bills out of his billfold and handed them to Casey. “Go to that fancy restaurant down the street and get two pieces of toast with real butter, one egg, scrambled, whole-wheat cereal with real cream and strawberries, and a large glass of orange juice. Bring it back on a silver platter. I don’t care how you get it, short of stealing. Bribe, beg, do whatever is necessary, but it has to be on a silver platter. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.” Casey stood up, looking regal in spite of his baggy evening clothes. “You’re going courting.”
“No. I’m just giving a lady what she wants.”
“‘Tis a certain lady with red hair, I’m thinkin’, so I’ll pick up a couple of steaks for you and me. Unless I miss my guess, well need all the strength we can get to handle her.”
“Do that, Casey.” Mick left the room, laughing.
Tess had requested a red rose, and he knew just where to get it. No hothouse flowers for him. No, sir. Tess would have the best. Nature’s own.
He walked around to the back of the motel and climbed over the chain-link fence. Then he jumped the small ditch that separated the commercial property from a ritzy residential section. Through the green belt of trees he could see exactly the house he had in mind. It was a huge white colonial affair, complete with a gazebo and a rose garden.
Putting on his best smile, he skirted around the back of the house until he came to the street. Then he sauntered casually down the sidewalk as if he’d just stepped from a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud.
He went up the steps and rang the doorbell. A wizened old woman with gray hair and a white apron came to the door.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Flannigan bowed and smiled. Then he whipped a white card out of his pocket and waved it in front of the old lady’s nose.
“I’m Trent Cadburry from the Horticulture Society of the South, and I’m here to check your roses.”
“Them ain’t my roses. They belong to Miz Shumaker. I’m Lilla.”
“May I speak with Mrs. Shumaker?”
“She ain’t home.”
“Oh dear.” Flannigan flapped around, imitating a man in great distress.
“Is they somethin’ I can do for you? You don’t look too good.”
“It’s about the roses, you s
ee, Miss Lilla. There’s a dreadful disease going around, and it’s my duty to take samples back to the lab for testing. If I don’t get some of Mrs. Shumaker’s roses, there’s no telling how far this disease will spread.”
“Shoot. Is that all you want? Some of them old roses? Why didn’t you say so in the first place instead of all that carryin’ on about Horseculture Society? Humph. I ain’t studyin’ no societies.” Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped onto the front porch.
Flannigan could hardly believe his good fortune. He had imagined his con would be worth about half a dozen roses. He’d even been willing to pay a fancy price. By the time Lilla got through beheading rosebushes, he was going to have to get a delivery truck to haul them in.
“Thank you, Miss Lilla. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Jest shut up and let me finish here. I’m tired of these old roses. Be glad to be shed of ‘em.”
When Lilla finally stood up, Flannigan’s arms were loaded with roses of every color.
“This should do nicely, Miss Lilla. You don’t know how much I appreciate your help.”
“If you find out they’s disease in ‘em, don’t come back here tellin’ Miz Shumaker. Jest keep it to yourself. Maybe they’ll all die.” She dusted her hands together, then looked with satisfaction on the path of devastation she had left among the rosebushes.
The roses in Mick’s arms fell naturally in all directions—some long-stemmed and some short—rose and pink and red and yellow and white and peach. A single black flower, taller than the rest, stood majestically in the center.
Flannigan thanked Lilla again, and left.
Casey was waiting for him inside their room, holding a silver tray.
“Did you have any trouble?” Flannigan asked, scanning the tray to see if all the food was there.
“None. Did you?” Casey eyed the roses.
“Slick as clockwork.” He put the roses in a big jar that had held artificial flowers. He added water and put the jar on the silver tray, then stood back to admire their handiwork.
“We make quite a team, Flannigan.”
“Don’t be getting any ideas, Casey.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, but he had his fingers crossed behind his back when he said it.
