by Sandra Brown
"Then, right in the middle of a counseling session that was crucial to this man's peace of mind, if not his life, you come in flaunting a ribald note in my face. How could I talk to him, pray with him, with that kind of distraction?"
Tears filled her eyes. "It wasn't ribald. I'm your wife."
"Then you should know better than to interrupt when I'm counseling someone in need."
"And what about me? What if I need you too?"
"You'll have to learn to wait."
"But I'm your wife," she repeated. "I come first."
He stared at her for a long moment, then said in a low voice that reverberated through the room, "No, Shay, God comes first."
Her face drained of all color, and she felt her life was seeping out of her body. Blindly she turned and fled to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. Only then did she let the tears fall. They flowed down her cheeks in torrents while wracking sobs shook her body.
"Shay, open this door," Ian demanded, knocking on it from the other side. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. Now open the door."
She obeyed him, opening the door immediately, flinging herself repentantly into his arms, and hugging him tight.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know. Honestly I didn't. I'm a wretched wife."
He buried his face in her wealth of hair and drew her toward the bed. There he comforted her until her crying had stopped and she was hiccuping softly.
"You didn't know any better this time. Ordinarily I would love to get a naughty note from you. It wasn't the note I objected to. It was your timing. I try to schedule counseling sessions during the day at my church office when I know I won't be disturbed. This was an emergency, and the first one since our marriage. I should have prepared you for nights like this, times when the telephone will ring and I'll have to leave you and our bed with virtually no explanation."
"I know, I know. Mentally I know that God and your work have to come first in your life. Forgive me for my occasional lapses of jealousy," she said, moving her fingers over his face, loving him. "It wasn't malicious. I didn't realize the gravity of his coming. I thought he had just come to visit. I'm trying, Ian. I really am."
He hugged her harder, running his hands over her back. "I know you are, and I'm so proud of you it's almost sinful."
She laughed then and pushed away, looking at him with her eyes awash with tears. "I love you so much."
"I love you, too," he whispered and lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss that drew her soul into his. "I love you." He covered her face and throat with kisses that grew in urgency even as his hands became greedier in their caresses. "What are you doing in this shroud?" he asked, pulling at yards of flannel in an effort to touch her. Hastily they undressed, and he pulled her down on top of him on the bed. "I do love you, Shay."
"I know, I know. I'm ashamed and sorry for what I did tonight. I was unthinking and selfish."
"I'll give you an opportunity to be unselfish."
She smiled and, leaning forward, offered him her breasts.
The candlelight service Ian conducted at midnight on Christmas Eve was one of the most moving Shay had ever attended. Christmas Day was a happy occasion, which they spent at the parsonage with Celia and John, who seemed more in love than ever. Members of the church dropped by bearing gifts in appreciation of Ian's devoted service to them through the year. Mrs. Higgins kept coffee, hot cranberry punch, and baked goods in ready supply for such unannounced guests.
Shay suggested that Ian open one of his presents from her in private. It was a box of body paints that they tried out in the shower while Celia and John retired to the guest bedroom for an afternoon nap.
"Isn't this fun?" Shay smoothed a line of Passionate Purple down his chest and stomach. His breath lodged in his throat when her fingers slid farther down.
"It's decadent." Despite his hoarse voice, he was accurately applying a dab of Voluptuous Vermilion to her nipple. "I think this is what they were doing in Sodom and Gomorrah before the Lord destroyed it."
"What a way to go," she said against his mouth.
They dropped tubes of paint onto the shower floor as their searching hands found better occupations. She swayed against him hypnotically, her thighs grazing elusively over his lower body until he trembled with need. "Shay, I can't wait. Take me inside you."
He grasped her hips with strong hands, and she let herself be impaled on his strength. Her cries of ecstasy echoed in the small tile enclosure as he fused their bodies with the wet, sleek precision of two sea creatures. Their mating was frenzied and quick. His body shuddered with his release at the same moment that she collapsed onto his chest, dying a little even as his life pumped into her.
Afterward they clung together weakly as water sluiced over them and cooled their fevered bodies. They fell apart, stunned, when they heard someone knocking on the bathroom door.
Ian shut off the water. "Yes?" he croaked.
"I hate to bother you, Ian," Celia called, "but I couldn't find Shay. There's a group of people from the church waiting to see you. I've served them refreshments in the living room."
"Th-thank you," he stuttered, Shay's playful hands giving him no respite. "We'll… I'll be right down."
He took her hands away and held them off him. "Let's try to get respectable."
Fifteen minutes later they were the picture of decorum as they descended the stairs, Shay's arm folded in the crook of Ian's elbow.
"I'm sorry we were … uh … busy when you arrived." Ian addressed the group politely from the wide door of the living room.
"We were doing some painting in the bathroom," Shay said with a deceptively angelic smile. Surreptitiously Ian pinched her on the bottom, and everyone jumped in startled surprise when their minister's wife yelped loudly for no apparent reason. "Won't you have some punch?" she said graciously and much more humbly as her husband led her into the living room.
The new year promised them happiness. Every day Shay came to love her husband more. She had been welcomed into the church with loving arms, and though some people found her way of accomplishing things a bit unorthodox, they couldn't criticize what she accomplished.
Shay found doing projects around the church immensely satisfying, but not quite energy-taxing enough to suit her. When a charming shop on the square attracted her attention, she bought several items for the parsonage there. The stock wasn't as elite as what Vandiveer had carried, but the gift boutique had a certain warmth that appealed to her. She made the acquaintance of the owner, and when she learned that his assistant was taking pregnancy leave in the spring, she applied for the job. It was only for three afternoons a week, but it would fill in the extra time she had on her hands. When she mentioned her plans to Ian, the idea met with his wholehearted approval. Shay was impatient for spring to arrive so she could begin working.
One snowy afternoon, Ian returned home stamping slush off his boots, clapping his gloved hands together, and shouting at the top of his lungs. Shay was stirring a pot of homemade soup at the range. She whirled toward him with excitement, her cheeks flushed.
"Guess what!" they said in unison, then laughed together.
"You go first," she said.
"No, you."
"Mine's better. You go first."
He pulled off his gloves with his teeth and clasped her shoulders with cold, red hands. "The basketball team is going to the tri-state playoffs, and they've asked me to go along." His blue eyes sparkled like a child's. He assumed a solemn expression and cleared his throat pedantically. "For spiritual guidance, of course."
"Oh, darling, that's great."
"I get to ride on the bus and everything."
She laughed at his boyish enthusiasm.
"Now you tell me your news. But first a kiss." He bent to plant a hard, damp kiss on her mouth as his hand stole under her sweater.
"Ach!" she wailed, spinning away from him. "That's cold."
"Come on," he said, stalking her around the kitchen, his arms outstret
ched, his lips smacking the air in an exaggerated pucker. "Give me a kiss."
She laughed and tossed a dish towel over his head. "Not on your life. Not until you warm up those hands."
"Tell me what's got you so excited," he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot she had warming on the stove.
"You'll never guess. My agent called, and Peter Zavala wants to photograph me. He's been asked to do a one-man show at the Metropolitan Museum next summer. I'm only one of many models he'll test-photograph, of course," she went on excitedly, "but he wants to do the entire study around one model. If I'm the one selected, I can't tell you what it would do for my career."
"Or mine." His comment echoed in the sudden silence between them.
She stared at him. Her first reaction was a flare of temper. She'd thought he'd be glad for her. Instead his face looked like a thundercloud as he stared into his coffeecup. In an effort to keep their relationship on an even keel, she licked her lips and said patiently, "He's the best, Ian. He specializes in photographing women. He's right up there with Avedon and Scavullo. It's an honor even to be asked to pose for him."
Ian pushed angrily away from the counter. "I know who he is. I've admired his work. I'm not that much a provincial puritan, as you're so fond of calling me."
"Well, then you can appreciate—"
"I can't appreciate my wife getting excited about taking off her clothes and posing for a photographer, and I don't care if he's the King of Siam!" he shouted. "Furthermore, I can't think of anything worse than having you displayed in the Metropolitan Museum, sprawling naked for all the world to see."
Rage, hot and fierce, coursed through her veins. "I do not sprawl," she retorted. "Zavala takes classic photographs, beautiful studies of the human body."
"And we all know how proud you are of your human body, don't we? You're always eager to show it off."
"And you're always damn eager to look!" she shouted. It was the first time she had cursed in weeks, and the word felt strange on her tongue.
"I'm your husband!"
"But not my owner, nor my conscience. Other people may come to you for advice about what they should do, but I don't need to. I know what I want. And what I want right now is to pose for Zavala." With that she left the room.
She didn't come down for dinner. Ian stayed in his study for most of the night. When at last he came to bed, she pretended to be asleep. The rest of the week followed the same pattern. There was no intimacy between them, barely any conversation beyond what was necessary. The tension in the house was palpable.
She didn't see him the morning of her appointment in Manhattan. He'd already left the house when she came downstairs, but she had arranged for Mrs. Higgins to drive her to the train station. She boarded the train with a leaden heart, resenting Ian. He should feel proud that she'd been asked. He should encourage her, calm her nerves, buck up her spirits. This assignment was important to her.
As the miles ticked off under the train's wheels, her bitterness increased and her determination along with it. She wouldn't let him spoil this opportunity for her. When she entered the studio, she'd be wonderful—animated, alive, and glowing.
She was. But when the session finally ended at nine o'clock that evening, she was exhausted. After checking into the most inexpensive hotel she could find in which she'd feel safe, she called home.
"Yes?" Ian said into the telephone. Was there a worried, anxious tone in his voice?
"Ian, it's me. I'm still in New York, and since it's so late, I've decided to spend the night and catch the first train home in the morning."
"I see," he said rigidly. "Do you have enough money, everything you need?"
"Yes."
"Well, then call Mrs. Higgins when you arrive, and she'll pick you up."
"All right." A lump of regret as hard as a rock was lodged in her throat. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him that since he hadn't endorsed it, posing for Zavala hadn't been nearly as exciting as she had expected. He had been demanding, condescending, and petulant.
Now, hearing Ian's voice, she wanted to cry, to tell him how tired she was, how much she hated this animosity between them, how much she missed his tender, ardent lovemaking. But pride wouldn't let her. Damn him! He'd backed her into a corner, and she couldn't relent. "Well, good night then."
"Good night." He hung up without another word.
The next day, Mrs. Higgins met Shay's train and dropped her at the house on her way to the market. "Reverend Douglas is at home," she told Shay as she got out of the car. Not finding him on the lower floor, Shay went upstairs. Her heart constricted with fear when she entered the bedroom and saw Ian tossing clothes into a suitcase. Was he leaving her?
"Ian?"
He turned around. "Hello, Shay. How was your trip?"
"What are you doing?" she asked, disregarding his inquiry. "Where are you going?"
"To the basketball playoffs, remember?"
She released a pent-up breath. "Oh, yes. When?"
"Right now."
Disappointment swamped her. She had hoped they might settle the misunderstanding between them today. "I see. For how long?"
He snapped the suitcase shut and pulled it off the bed. "Until they lose a game." He brushed past her and made his way downstairs. "I've asked Mr. Griffin, who is chairman of the deacons, to oversee things at the chinch while I'm gone. I'm to be called if there's an emergency. Otherwise refer anyone who calls about church business to him."
"I will," Shay replied, following him despondently down the stairs.
He shrugged into his coat at the door and pulled on his gloves. "The coach's wife will know where we're staying if you need me."
I need you!she cried silently. "Ian." The desperation in her voice must have registered on him. He turned on his way out the door. Snowflakes settled on his dark hair and lashes.
"Yes?"
She wanted to fly into his arms, to mesh her mouth with his, to taste his passion, to take his strength into herself. But angry, hateful words echoed loudly in her head. She wasn't ready to capitulate, and she knew he wouldn't.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Have a safe trip."
"Good-bye."
The door closed solidly behind him, like the door of a cell. Shay felt imprisoned by despair—total, black, and absolute.
Chapter Ten
« ^
Snow continued to fall for hours after Ian left. Shay was forced to stay inside. When the heavy snow didn't stop, and it looked like driving would become difficult, she sent Mrs. Higgins home for the duration of the storm. Shay didn't want to worry about the older woman driving to and from the parsonage in dangerous weather.
Shay roamed the cheerless, empty rooms, listening unconsciously for the sound of Ian's voice, the stamp of his boots, his low husky laughter, his whispered words of love. Those were the dearest to recall, but they brought waves of loneliness.
"I love for you to touch me there," she had said the last time they'd made love.
"Here?"
There had followed a long pause as their rasping breath filled the still room. "Yes."
"I love touching you. Soft, womanly."
His gifted fingers, which contained all the secrets of loving, prepared the way for a sweet mouth and a nimble tongue. Love flowed through her body like a fine wine, rich and pure, effervescent and intoxicating.
Wrapping her arms around herself now, Shay felt an emptiness yawning wide inside her as she remembered all the times they had made love. Sometimes they had been playful and swift, coming to a lusty completion quickly. Other times they had been slow and languid, drawing out each other's passion for hours until they allowed themselves the pleasure of explosive culmination. But always it had been an exchange, not only of their bodies, but of their spirits as well. Shay missed that most of all.
The basketball tournament dragged on for days. Shay listened to it on the radio, feeling closer to Ian that way. But as Brookside continued to win, Ian remained absent, and a new suspic
ion began to haunt her. For several days now she had been feeling vague changes in her body. Her period was over a week late—and as a rule she was as regular as clockwork. Alone in the empty house without Ian to share her thoughts, she grew increasingly restless. Finally she decided to brave the still snow-covered streets. She drove to a nearby pharmacy and bought a pregnancy testing kit, which she knew to be fairly reliable.
When she returned home, she sat for hours, staring contemplatively into the fire, her hands folded across her stomach, thinking about much more than just the results of the test she was waiting for.
It came to her quietly then that she knew what Ian's sermon had been about that first morning she'd heard him speak. She knew, too, what she must do.
When they had married, she'd known she loved him, but not until recently had she realized the magnitude of her love and what it required of her. She would give up her modeling, at least the nude modeling. She would give it up freely, not because Ian had demanded it of her, but because she loved him and couldn't live with anything that made him unhappy. At one time such self-denial would have been impossible for her. She would have thought someone expected it of her, and she would have resented Ian for not accepting her as she was. Now her decision didn't feel like self-denial at all. And when she went upstairs to the bathroom and saw that the test results were positive—she was pregnant!—she experienced a fulfillment and peace she'd never known in her life. Oh, if only Ian would hurry home!
Suddenly she was injected with renewed energy. Since her job at the small boutique hadn't started and the weather prohibited everything else, she raided the pantry and spent the afternoon preparing casseroles and baked goods that she could freeze for later. She sang as she worked and laughed aloud when she realized that she was humming the tune Ian had been singing in the shower that first day. How long ago that seemed now. She wasn't the same shallow, flighty girl she'd been then. A woman had emerged in her place, a woman who knew what it meant to be loved. She only wished Ian were here so she could share her new understanding with him.
