by Flora Kidd
‘Hello. Who’s calling?’ Adam’s voice was gruff and abrupt, and she tried hard not to feel put off.
‘Adam?’ She made an effort to sound cheerful. ‘This is Lenore.’
‘Who?’ he demanded sharply.
Oh lord, he’d forgotten her already! She was tempted to hang up rather than to start explaining who she was; rather than remind him of their night together.
‘Lenore Parini.’ She forced herself to continue brightly. ‘Remember? I got caught in the snowstorm, the weekend before last, and had to stay the night at your house.’
There was silence at the other end of the line. A long silence. And she was just beginning to wonder if Adam was still there or if they had been inadvertently cut off when he spoke again, softly, ‘I remember. I remember waking up the next morning and you’d gone.’ There was another silence, then he said curtly. ‘What do you want? Why have you phoned?’
‘I ... I have a request to make,’ she said, and broke off to swallow. For some reason her throat was very dry.
‘Request?’ he repeated roughly. ‘For yourself? What do you want? Money?’
‘No, oh, no! Oh, how could you think that!’ She was suddenly furious. ‘Oh, really, you have the most suspicious mind—and now I wish I hadn’t called you ...’
‘So why don’t you hang up?’ he interrupted her rudely. ‘I’m going to.’
There was a clatter at the other end of the line and then a dead silence. Angrily Lenore returned her receiver to its rest and sat glaring for a few minutes at the phone while she called Adam Jonson all the rude names she could think of. Then, springing to her feet, she went into the kitchen where Blythe was kneading bread dough for dinner rolls.
‘He hung up on me!’ she spluttered. ‘He thought I was going to ask him for money. Oh, he’s the most infuriating person I’ve ever met!’ ‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Blythe in her calm way. ‘Give up?’
‘No—never!’ seethed Lenore. ‘Will you lend me the car to drive over there? I’m going to ask him face to face.’
‘Good for you. Sure you can have the car. But let me know if you’re going to stay the night over there again, won’t you?’ Blythe said smoothly, and Lenore swung round to stare at her.
‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘Just what are you implying?’
‘Nothing,’ replied Blythe airily, but there was a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes. ‘I don’t want to spend another night worrying about you, that’s all. Take care when you’re driving, won’t you?’ The weeks of May sunshine that had followed the late Easter snowstorm had brought about miraculous changes in the gardens of the houses along Bay Street West. Lawns had turned green. Daffodils and some tulips nodded in the sea-breeze and buds were beginning to burst into leaf on the maples and birches.
The driveway to the Jonson house was striped with gold where the sunlight shone through the branches of the pines, and the house itself seemed to glow with reflected light against the washed blue of the sky, looking very different from the last time she had seen it.
She went up the steps and rang the doorbell. From inside the house came the sound of barking. After a while the barking stopped, but the door didn’t open, so she rang again. More barking that stopped again after a while. The door didn’t open.
‘Adam Jonson, you can’t fool me,’ Lenore muttered to herself. ‘I know you’re in there.’
The front door wasn’t locked and bolted and she was able to push it open, cautiously because she didn’t want Caesar to come growling and snarling at her. Much to her surprise the dog wasn’t in the hallway and she was able to step inside unhindered.
Closing the door after her quietly, she stood for a few moments listening. Compared with the last time she had stood in that hallway the house was full of light. It was also silent. No wind whined. No timbers creaked.
‘Adam?’ she called. ‘Adam? It’s me—Lenore!’ From the back of the house came the sound of the dog barking, but Caesar didn’t slink into the hallway and she presumed he was shut into the kitchen. He could hear her and knew she had come in, but he couldn’t do anything about it.
There was no answer to her call, so she moved towards the entrance to the big living-room. Sunlight slanted in from the west-facing windows and shone on the glass-fronted cabinets. The piano glowed rosily. The oak floor gleamed golden-brown. The pale marble of the fireplace and the silver candelabra added touches of coolness. The green velvet curtains shimmered softly. More than ever Lenore felt that the gracious and elegant room was a perfect setting for a small concert of chamber music. She could almost hear the sound of the piano and the strings playing a Brahms quartet followed by the lyrical lilt of a divertimento for woodwind and strings by Mozart, with herself playing the clarinet.
Adam wasn’t in the room and there were no signs of him having been in it that day. It was neat and dusted.
‘Hello. Anyone at home?’ she called when she returned to the hallway. Only the dog barked again.
The door to the room that Adam used as a bedroom was closed. Was it possible he was in there? Lenore went over to it and knocked sharply, then turned the knob, pushed the door and looked in. The bed was made. The furniture shone. Adam wasn’t there.
She closed the door and stood still again, listening and thinking, then went down the passage to the kitchen and knocked on that door. The dog barked in a frenzy of excitement and she could hear it pawing the other side of the door. She thumped on the door.
‘Adam Jonson, are you in there?’ she called.
The dog barked and barked, half crazy with frustration because it couldn’t get out of the kitchen. Not daring to open the door in case Caesar jumped at her, Lenore, also feeling frustrated, began to make her way back along the passage. The barking stopped, and she looked back. The kitchen door swung open and Adam appeared, his hair ruffled, dark shades glinting, hiding his eyes, taut lips curling back from white teeth.
‘My God,’ he snarled, ‘don’t you ever give up? Why have you come here? What do you want now?’
The sight of him, tall and wide-shouldered in sweater and jeans, had the strangest effect on her. It seemed suddenly as if her legs had turned to jelly, and she put a hand against the wall to support herself.
‘To ... to see you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve come to see you—to ask you what I was going to ask you on the phone, only—only you hung up.’
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She could only stare and stare, spellbound again. He stood very still for a few moments seeming to stare at her too. Then he moved abruptly, closing the kitchen door behind him. Shut in the kitchen, the dog whimpered at being cut off from its master.
Sunlight didn’t reach that far down the passage and with the kitchen door closed there wasn’t much light. Adam stepped towards her and stopped to stand in front of her. Raising a hand, he touched her face, fingertips stroking her cheek, pressing against the skin and the moulding of the cheekbone before moving on to her temple and thrusting into her hair.
‘You are real, then,’ he murmured strangely, peering down at her through the dark lenses while his fingers made free with silky strands of her hair, winding in it, pulling at it as if they couldn’t have enough of it.
‘Yes, yes, I’m real,’ she said shakily. Eroticism was racing along her nerves, boiling in her blood, aroused by his touch and by his nearness. ‘Oh, yes, I’m real—very real.’
And she reached out to him, her hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, her face lifting willingly to his as he bent his head to kiss her.
CHAPTER FIVE
URGENTLY they kissed, like lovers who have long been separated, passion, white-hot, flowing freely through their mouths and from their fingertips. In that dark comer of the silent house they clung to each other and for a while had no knowledge or sense of time or place. They knew and sensed only each other.
But, as Adam pushed her back against the wall and his hands began to move intimately over the curves of her breasts under the open tweed jacket
she was wearing with a blouse and skirt, Lenore struggled to surface above the waves of sensuousness which were sweeping over her.
‘No, no,’ she whispered, her hands curving about his wrists in an effort to stop his marauding hands. ‘Wait—oh, please wait! I didn’t come just for this. I came to ask you . . .’
The rest of what she had to say was cut off by the savagery of his mouth dominating hers again, and a sultry darkness seemed to take over her mind, blotting out reasonable thought. She ceased being a person, independent and in control of her own destiny, and became a creature ruled entirely by emotion and sensation, completely at the mercy of Adam’s lips and hands and wanting to stay like that, glorying in his mastery, welcoming his domination as he pressed the whole length of his hard body against hers, the thrust of his hips making her aware of his arousal.
Breathlessly he whispered in her ear,
‘Now I know you’re real. I wasn’t sure, you see. I thought I might have dreamed you’d stayed the night with me and slept with me. And when you phoned this afternoon I thought I was imagining things again. That’s why I hung up.’ He laughed softly, his breath tickling the tender skin of her ear-lobe, causing delicious shivers to spiral through her. ‘But it worked. You came here, and now I know you’re real, flesh and blood, and not a phantom like the Lenore in the poem.’ He pushed away from her but took hold of her arms, his fingers biting cruelly into soft flesh. ‘Why did you leave me before I woke up that morning?’ he demanded fiercely. ‘Why did you go?’
‘I didn’t want the Smiths to find us together, in bed,’ she replied, staring up at him, a little frightened by his behaviour. Was he crazy after all? Had living alone for so long frustrated by his half-blindness, addled his brain? ‘And . . . and I had to go back to the Inn as soon as I could, to see Blythe. It was best that I left when I did. Don’t you see that, Adam?’
‘I don’t see anything much,’ he growled bitterly. ‘Best for whom? Not for me.’ He jerked her towards him again. The dark lenses glared down at her. ‘Now that you’re here I’m not letting you go like that again.’
‘But you can’t make me stay if I don’t want to,’ she retorted.
‘You’ll want to—I’ll make sure of that,’ he said softly, his head tipping towards hers until his lips were a hair’s breadth from her mouth, hovering over it tormentingly, tempting her to kiss him again. Quickly she turned her head sideways to avoid temptation.
‘Please, please behave sensibly,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go somewhere to talk. I really came to ask a favour of you. Can we go into the living room? It’s about that room I want to ask you.’
As she had hoped, mention of the room diverted him momentarily. His hands slid down her arms and he stepped back from her.
‘Okay, we’ll go to the living room and talk,’ he agreed.
She followed him along the passage and into the long wide room with the velvet curtains and the grand piano. She sat on the sofa and he stood by the fireplace, one arm resting along the marble overmantel as he turned to face her.
‘So what’s this favour you want to ask,’ he said abruptly.
He didn’t sound very approachable now, she thought, and his mouth had a cynical twist to it. She had thought of many ways to ask him, but now that the moment had come she couldn’t think of how to begin. She glanced around the room as if searching for inspiration and her gaze stayed with the piano, admiring again the sheen of its rosy wood, the elegance of its curves. It looked as if someone had been playing it, because the top was open. Her eyes widened slightly, their attention drawn to something that was resting against the piano stool—a classical guitar, a very new-looking guitar, its pale wood gleaming yellow in the sunlight. She hadn’t noticed it when she had looked into the room before.
‘Where did you get the guitar?’ she exclaimed.
‘I asked Albert to buy it for me when he was in Bangor,’, he replied coolly, then added softly, ‘Your advice when you were here last made a big impression on me.’
‘And have you been playing it?’ she asked, turning to look at him again.
‘I’ve been trying.’
‘I’m glad,’ she whispered, then hurried on, ‘When I was here before did I tell you about the music group that’s started up in Northport?’ ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘Are you a member of it?’ ‘Yes, now I am. I went to a meeting. . . .’
‘If you’ve come to ask me to join it, forget it,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I’m not going to make a fool of myself in front of other musicians.’
‘I’m not going to ask you to join,’ she replied spiritedly. ‘They only want people who can play, really play. They already have a string quartet and a pianist and they’re now ready to put on their first concert. But they can’t find a suitable place to perform in.’
She paused and studied his face. Was he listening? Or was he bored, turned off? It was hard to tell.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I told them about this room and the piano.’
‘You did? Why?’ Adam spoke sharply.
‘Because . . . because I couldn’t help thinking what a perfect setting it would be for a chamber music concert, with the piano and all. And Isaac. . . that’s Isaac Goldstein, the violinist, he’s retired now.. . asked me to ask you if you’d lend the room to them for their first concert.’ She paused again, hesitantly seeing how hard his face had grown, then added weakly, ‘So here I am asking you. Would you lend them the room, Adam, please?’
‘And that’s the only reason you phoned me and came here, to ask me that?’ he said.
‘Yes, the only reason,’ she whispered.
For a few moments he didn’t move, nor did he say anything. Then he moved suddenly to stride away from the fireplace across to the piano. He stood there for a while with his back to her smoothing the side of the piano with long fingers. Slowly he turned to lean within the curve of the piano. Beneath the dark glasses his mouth was set in a grim line.
‘I suppose you think I owe you one for making you stay and sleep with me the other night,’ he accused harshly.
‘No, oh no—I don’t think that at all.’ Lenore sprang to her feet and went over to him. ‘Really, I don’t,’ she added, then burst out, ‘And you’re hateful to believe that of me. Oh, why are you so suspicious?’
‘Call it a natural cynicism where women are concerned,’ he drawled nastily. ‘A form of self-preservation built into most men.’
‘Oh, I wish I hadn’t come,’ she raged helplessly. ‘I wish I hadn’t come! I guessed you’d be like this!’ She swung away from him and made for the doorway.
‘Lenore—where are you going?’
She turned back. He was coming after her. She stopped and waited until he reached her.
‘I’m going back to Northport to tell the group I asked you to lend them the room and that you refused,’ she snapped.
‘But I haven’t refused,’ he replied coolly. ‘Not yet. I might, just might, agree to let them give their first concert in this room. It depends a lot on you.’
‘Oh? In what way?’ She was surprised, and showed it by staring up at him, her eyes wide. He looked down at her, peering intently through the dark lenses.
‘I’ve been thinking over the other advice you gave me when you stayed the night,’ he told her, ‘not just the bit about taking up the guitar again.’
‘Wh-what advice was that?’ she whispered.
‘About marriage. You suggested it was something I could do. Getting married, having children would give me a reason for living, you said. Remember?’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Her voice was a thread of sound.
‘Well, I’ve decided that you’re right. I ought to get married, and if you’ll agree to marry me as soon as we can get a licence I’ll agree to let your music group perform their concerts in this room,’ he said clearly and concisely.
‘That’s . . . it’s . . . you’re crazy!’ she stammered, feeling stunned. ‘We . . . we can’t get married!’
‘Why can’t we? We’re both a
dults, free to do as we like,’ he retorted. ‘What or who can stop us?’
‘But. . . we’re not... we don’t love each other. I’m not in love with you and you’re not in love with me,’ she faltered.
‘Then what the hell is it that’s going on between us?’ Adam demanded roughly, seizing hold of her arms again and jerking her towards him. ‘Why do we both ignite when we meet?’ he growled between set teeth.
‘It . . . it isn’t love. It isn’t love,’ Lenore cried out, her hand flat against his chest, holding him off. ‘It’s infatuation and it won’t last. It never does, and it isn’t a reason for marriage.’
‘Who says so?’ he demanded.
Only just in time Lenore bit back the words, ‘Ann Landers says so, in her counselling column,’ and felt hysterical laughter rising within her.
‘I do,’ she spluttered. ‘I ... I can’t marry you because I ... I don’t love you.’
‘You don’t sound very sure,’ he drawled, his mood changing again, his hands relaxing their grip of her arms to slide up to and along her shoulders to her throat. Lightly and suggestively his fingers trailed over her skin and from within her slender body came a response stronger than her will that made her moan and close her eyes in protest against such a violent turbulence.
‘Marry me, Lenore, and live here with me,’ he said, his breath warm on her lips. ‘Marry me and you can have all the music groups in the world to play here whenever you like. Marry me and this house will be yours to do whatever you want with it. You see how generous I can be?’
‘But only when you want something in return,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, let me go! I ... I can’t think straight when you’re kissing me.’ His lips were blazing a trail along the line of her jaw and across her cheek. ‘Or when you’re touching me.’ His fingers had slid within the opening of her blouse and their cool tips were stroking the fast-hardening breast.
‘So don’t think,’ he murmured. ‘Just feel. And do what you feel you want to do and let’s make the most of whatever it is that’s going on between us; infatuation, spring fever, call it what you will. It’s here, it’s now and it’s good. It’s so very good.’
